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For once, Mitch woke up before Jodie. She was still out cold in their bed, sprawled across it, flat on her stomach. The shirt she’d stolen from him had ridden up during the night, allowing him a fantastic view of her luscious rear. Mitch smiled at the sight.
As quietly as he could, he got dressed in his running gear and made his way down the stairs to the hotel exit. He probably should have woken her, but he knew she had a lot to do that day—what with the restaurant opening that night—and she needed the sleep. She might be stronger than anyone he knew, but she was still dealing with a lot and there were dark circles under her eyes that only sleep would erase.
Mitch passed Dougal on his way out of the building.
“Going running?” Dougal said.
Mitch looked down at his running shorts. “Nope, going dancing.”
“Cheeky arse,” Dougal said. “What is it with you lads? You’re always running or lifting weights or hitting something. In my day, men got their exercise from good, honest hard work.”
Mitch looked at Dougal’s large, round belly and wondered if his day had really been that great.
“Jodie’s in my room. I’m going to run along the loch, then up to the castle. I have a meeting with Josh early this morning. Can you wake Jodie in an hour? She needs to get back to the spa. The restaurant opens tonight.”
“Of course,” Dougal said, but his lips thinned at the mention of the new restaurant. For years, Dougal’s pub and restaurant had been the only option in town. A little healthy competition would do the man good. “Why you need to exercise before the sun even comes out, I don’t know. Shouldn’t you do this in daylight so you don’t trip and break your neck?”
“Great talking to you, Dougal. On that cheery note, I’m going to head out.” Mitch left Dougal shaking his head as he stepped out of the building.
The sun was rising over the loch and the world was painted in the blues and greys of early morning. Even though it was technically summer, there was still a nip in the air. Although he loved living in Scotland, Mitch still missed the warmer weather of his home town. He wondered if Jodie had ever been to Atlantic City and made a note to take her for a visit, if he could talk her into it. He stretched his calf muscles and then started his jog alongside the loch with only the dark waters for company.
Mitch didn’t get very far before the first blow struck him.
The fist glanced off his jaw, making him stagger to the side. He spun on his heels, back to the loch and faced the men who surrounded him. Three of them. None of them had Mitch’s height, but all three looked a helluva lot meaner. He quickly scanned the area behind them. They were hidden from town by a line of bushes. An SUV had been parked on the grass at the side of the bushes, out of sight of the road. They’d been waiting for him. And there wasn’t a single other person in sight.
“You’re coming with us,” the one in the middle said. Mitch didn’t need to hear the English accent to know who he was dealing with.
The leader was slightly smaller than the other two, but they all shared the same thick brow, stocky build and square jaw. Definitely relatives. Two of them had buzz cuts; the third had a shaved head with a blue swastika tattooed on the crown. Mitch mentally catalogued the heavy steel-toe boots, the crowbar the one on the right held and the brass knuckles the one in the middle wore on his tattooed fingers. He really didn’t want to get close enough to those fists to read what the words spelled out.
“Not going to happen.” Mitch kept his weight on the balls of his feet and shook his arms loose. Three against one weren’t ideal odds, but he’d take at least one of them out and do as much damage as he could to the other two before he’d let them take him.
“Fucking American.” The leader spat in Mitch’s direction.
“And here I thought you guys were only racist when it came to non-whites.” Yeah, he probably shouldn’t prod them.
“You need to get the fuck back to your own country and mind your own fucking business. First, we need you to do something for us.” The leader nodded at the guy on the left, who reached behind him and slipped something out of the back of his jeans.
A knife.
Mitch stilled at the sight of it. A flash of memory from months earlier hit him. The feeling of a sharp blade sliding into his flesh. He shook it off. Concentrate. He had to concentrate.
“Get in the car and you won’t get hurt,” the leader ordered as his two henchmen stepped closer to Mitch. “Much.”
Mitch was hemmed in, with the icy water of the loch behind him. He contemplated running for the water and making a swim for it, but they would be on him before he could make it to the water’s edge. There was nothing else to do but stand and fight. This was going to hurt. He looked around for a weapon. There wasn’t one. There was only one thing for it—he needed to take theirs.
“Get him!” the leader snapped, and they lunged for him.
Mitch dropped, threw a handful of dirt and stones in the face of the guy holding the knife and rolled towards the guy with the crowbar. Crowbar guy landed hard on his back. Mitch punched him in the throat before jumping to his feet.
A brutal blow hit him low on his back, just missing his kidney. He sucked it up and stamped on the hand carrying the crowbar. The guy squealed. Someone grabbed a handful of Mitch’s hair as he bent to get the crowbar. He elbowed the guy behind him in the face, loosening his hold, and grabbed the bar. Swinging around, he hit the nearest guy behind him with the crowbar. It was the guy with the knife. The blow hit his jaw and he crumpled.
Mitch ignored the blood and lunged for the knife. A boot kicked him hard in the thigh as he got his hands on it. As he clambered to his feet, he flung the knife into the water. Crowbar guy was standing, cradling his wrist.
Mitch swung the crowbar at the leader, who cursed and ducked. The wounded guy rushed him and Mitch stepped back towards the loch. He felt a punch hit his ribs like a freight train and thought he heard a crack. He swung the crowbar at the leader, but it just glanced off his shoulder.
A heavy boot hit the back of his knee and Mitch toppled. The leader was on him and the last thing he saw was a fist with brass knuckles aimed at his head.