by Leslie North
Weasel: You still owe the rest of the payment. We’ll discuss tomorrow.
Chance snapped the carrot in half to keep from destroying her phone. The text shortcut offered him the choice between “Reply,” “Delete,” or open the full messaging app. His finger bounced between the options, but his rage made him slam down on “Delete.”
The water shut off in the bathroom and he hustled to move the bag of potatoes to the cutting board. Getting into a rhythm, he chopped through the pile and tossed them into a pot of water.
“Wow. Do you hate potatoes or something?”
He jerked his head up and found her in the doorway in one of his T-shirts. “Huh?”
She pointed. “You’re hatcheting and stabbing them.”
Probably because he kept picturing Walter’s face and the new stupid plan that wouldn’t leave him alone. “I was thinking,” his mouth said in contradiction to his conscience’s caution. He washed his hands and moved the pot to the stove. “You’ve been working so hard lately, you’ve earned a day off.”
Mandy blinked and moved next to him. “I have Sundays off.”
“Yeah, but when was the last time you had a day off during the week?” He grabbed the package of boneless chicken breasts and worked on slicing off the fat. “I can handle the workload on my own tomorrow. You can stay home and balance the books you’ve been complaining you have no time to do. Or even go out with Pepper.” He didn’t give a shit as long as she didn’t show up at the garage.
His conscience panged and he hesitated. Should he be talking to Walter without her? She specifically asked him not to do anything without telling her first. But handling the situation her way was obviously not working—
Feminine arms wrapped around his waist and she snuggled against his back. “You’re so sweet.”
Not really. Guilt wormed inside him.
“I would love to catch up on ordering supplies too.” She kissed his spine. “And Pepper’s been hounding me for a mani-pedi day.”
Whatever that was. “Then it’s settled.” He positioned the chicken inside a glass oven dish and sprinkled some seasonings on top. “After dinner, I’ll drive you home. I insist you sleep in.” That way she wouldn’t inadvertently stumble onto him confronting Walter if she went through Main Street on her way back to her house. “You shouldn’t be bothered by my alarm.”
“If you’re sure,” she drew out, still holding him tight.
No. But then an image of Walter leering as he dominated her against the wall flashed through his mind. “Absolutely.”
That jackass needed to learn that Mandy had someone in her corner. Chance would do everything he could not to provoke a fight, but he wouldn’t back down from one if it came to that.
12
Mandy jabbed the mouse beside her laptop and blew out a breath. Glaring at the screen, she inhaled a mouthful of coffee, but the caffeine hit did nothing to change the abysmal numbers after balancing her bank accounts.
Nothing moved inside the house and she lifted her gaze off the screen. Deliberating between fixing something hearty for breakfast or lazily grabbing cereal gave her a mental break from the accounts. Pepper had worked the late shift at Lunar Brewery last night, so she wouldn’t be stirring for hours yet.
Eyes sliding back to the screen, she slumped and the pleather chair creaked. If something didn’t change soon, she’d have to sell the garage. The money she’d make off the sale probably wouldn’t be enough to pay off the bookie, but she’d only have a small percentage of the balance left to worry about.
I could sell the house too. Her stomach lurched at the insidious idea but she couldn’t reject it. It wouldn’t help her with the gambling debt directly but she’d be able to pay the bank off which would go a long way. She and Pepper could move into an apartment and Mandy could beg the new garage’s owner to let her continue working there. Thoughts of Chance slithered in. Would he stay on as a mechanic, too? As far as she knew, he hadn’t fully decided to settle in Springwell much to her heart’s dismay, and she doubted he’d be quiet about her plans to sell.
Bing! Her eyes whipped to the lower corner of the screen and spied an email notification. She clicked on the message from her distributor. A popular tire company was about to run a sale on a line of tires with heavy tread.
Mandy clicked on the link to take her to her supplier’s website. She’d be stupid not to stock up right now. She wasn’t sure how it was in the rest of the country, but in her part of Georgia, spring and summer was “mudding season.” People piled into their trucks—or their buddy’s truck—and headed for the hills. Traversing through the rugged terrain, they tested their trucks’ capabilities as they tore through the bogs and ripped through the muddy fields and woods. If the truck wasn’t covered in brown mud by the time they were done, they didn’t do it right.
Needless to say, she serviced a lot of vehicles during the season.
Perhaps thoughts of selling were premature. If she could make enough during this busy time, maybe she could hold things together a few more months. Put off selling. Put off the fight with Chance she’d be sure to have once he found out she was selling. Put off risking the fragile new relationship that had blossomed between them. Maybe she could hold off a little longer. Just a little longer.
Chance’s morning had started way too soon. Sleep only came in restless patches so he finally gave up. At four in the morning, he went for a ten-mile run, then pushed his body through a punishing workout. Not exactly at SEAL level, but damn close.
The demons quieted as he sweated and grunted and a new idea grabbed hold. He couldn’t be stupid or hot-headed in his bid to save Mandy. He’d learned quickly in the SEALs that the team always had his back. No man ever had to go it alone. Or should go it alone. He needed a team. People who were trained in combatting lowlife thugs like Walter and the bookie. Someone like Agent Mark Butler of the FBI who had resources and the backing of the government to take down the corrupt organization.
Since Mandy couldn’t talk to the FBI without Walter knowing, Chance would become her voice, her representative. He’d be the liaison and take on the risk.
Unlocking the main door to the garage’s waiting room, Chance jabbed in the code to shut off the alarm. He had already walked the perimeter of the property and felt compelled to double-check nothing had been tampered with inside.
Satisfied everything looked as it should, he dropped into the cracked leather chair in the small office and thumbed to the photo gallery on his phone. He had snuck a picture of the FBI agent’s card the moment he’d found it. Now, he pulled it up on the screen. The address imprinted on the card was in Atlanta.
Seven fifty-seven in the morning. Was it too early to call? He eyed the handwritten cellphone number at the bottom and figured screw it. The guy wouldn’t have added that if he only stuck to business hours.
The phone rang once when a rich, male voice answered, “Agent Butler.”
“Hello,” Chance responded, resting his elbows on the desk. “My name is Chance McCallister, and I’m calling on behalf of Amanda Loomis.”
Silence dominated for too many heartbeats. “She’s in Springwell, right?” Something banged in the background. “Has a garage her father owned and a gambling debt he left behind, right? It’s been a few years.”
“Good memory.” Chance relaxed and exhaled. If a guy could recall that much detail after two years and barely any interaction, then Chance had picked the right man to help.
“Has something happened?”
“Yeah, I came home from the Navy,” Chance retorted bluntly. “I’m not going to let these thugs take all her money and intimidate her anymore.”
A soft chuckle filled the speaker. “Good man. I hated it when she walked away, but I couldn’t make her help me, and to be honest, other cases demanded my attention.”
“Triage.”
“You’ve got that right,” Agent Butler responded bitterly. “Please tell me you’ve got something more than the collector’s name.”
Chance clenched h
is fist. “Not yet. I was hoping you could fill me in about Walter.” He scrubbed his face. “I need help. Can you tell me what you need to take these guys down and work with me to do it?”
A loud sigh followed another thump. “All right. I’m at my desk.” Keyboard clicking and mouse tapping became the soundtrack for a minute. “Okay. Walter Witby’s got a pretty standard rap sheet. He’s a professional flunky. He’s been connected to a string of more powerful players but always seems to wiggle out of serious jail time.”
That fit with what Chance had observed about the jackass.
“I don’t have any information on who he’s currently sucking up to, so bringing him in at this point won’t do us much good.”
Mark Butler’s words echoed Mandy’s last night.
“He’d lawyer up,” the agent continued, “and we’d lose the ability to learn the loan shark’s name.” He paused. “You willing to become an informant? The pay sucks as in there is none, and you take on a ton of risk.”
“Absolutely.” Chance straightened. “This ends now. Mandy’s dealt with this long enough.”
“I see how it is,” Agent Butler chuckled. “I’d do the same thing for my wife.” His voice changed back to professional. “What we need is the name of the bookie. Once we have that, we can devise a plan based on who we’re dealing with to get solid evidence to throw this guy in jail.”
“Consider it done,” Chance promised. “Here’s my contact information.”
By the time Chance hung up, he felt a lot better. He had a plan. He had a team. He now just needed the weaselly jackass to give up the information.
A slow grin spread across his face as he unlocked the door and opened the three bays for business. One way or another, Walter Witby would tell him what he wanted to know.
13
Mandy drummed her fingers against her thigh and kicked her bare foot hanging over the couch cushion. Changing the channel again, she couldn’t find a damn thing on TV that held her attention.
Pepper still hadn’t stirred from her room, and short of vacuuming—as the noise would wake her roommate up—Mandy had needlessly cleaned every spotless room in the house.
Jab. Jab. Jab. She continuously stabbed at the remote. For the hundredth time, her eyes slid to the clock on the DVR. 9:48 A.M.
“Ugggh.” She slapped the back of her head against a throw pillow. Pepper wouldn’t be up and ready for a spa session for another hour at least.
Thumbing the power off, she tossed the remote onto the couch and hoisted herself off. Toeing on a pair of sturdy flip flops, she grabbed her house keys and slipped outside. Flower pots bursting with flowers—all Pepper’s doing as Mandy had a death thumb—hung between the three white square columns rimming the porch.
Jogging down the steps, she smiled at the butterflies perching on the edge of the petals before fluttering away. She hadn’t had breakfast yet, and Lancer’s Diner had a short stack of cinnamon French toast she loved.
If she just so happened to see the garage on her way, well, she could stop in and show Chance how much she was thinking about him this morning.
She set a moderate pace. Beads of sweat dotted her hairline as she trudged along the sidewalk, then her steps ground to a halt yards from the garage. A large black SUV blocked a set of vehicles in the side lot. Through the waiting room’s glass door, she spied two muscular men and Walter crowding Chance. Walter’s scrawny arms gesticulated and Chance’s expression turned stony.
Then Walter threw the first punch.
Chance had been coiled tight since he’d opened the garage. Not with nerves but anticipation for the coming confrontation.
When the SUV pulled in, parking like an asshole, Chance’s instincts told him trouble had finally arrived. Chance moved into the waiting room in an effort to keep the residents of Springwell from witnessing the drama and kept his body loose.
Walter barreled in ahead of the pack, stopping short when he spied Chance in the center of the room. His thuggy friends in black suits—one with a heavy unibrow on his ugly mug, and the other with the dull eyes of the truly simple-minded—spread to either side of the collector.
“Where’s Mandy?” Walter demanded, puffing up his bony frame that was swallowed in its own black suit.
“She’s no longer your concern,” Chance responded, peering at Walter but avidly watching for movement from the goons.
Fury reddened Walter’s face and he stalked forward. Poking the air near Chance’s chest, he bit out. “You have no idea who you’re messing with or what you’re getting involved in.”
Chance calmly popped an eyebrow at the jackass who only came to his chin. “I’d love it if you enlightened me.”
“I can make your life hell,” Walter retorted, and it took all of Chance’s self-control not to laugh. The guy obviously had no clue what Chance had survived the past twelve years. “Now, tell Mandy to stop hiding. That bitch owes me money and I plan on collecting one way or another.”
The need to punch this bastard’s throat lit through Chance, but he banked the impulse to silence the asshole and made sure nothing showed on his face. “As I said before,” he answered coolly, “you’ll be dealing with me from now on. I’d be happy to give you my phone number as you’ll no longer be contacting Mandy.”
“I don’t want your fucking number.”
Chance dipped his head just a touch to emphasize looking down on Walter, trying to rile him up so he’d blurt something useful. “Those threatening texts stop now unless you’re man enough to send them to someone your own size.” Chance quirked his mouth. “Relatively speaking, of course. Maybe if you stood on a stool or something.”
The new shade of red flushing Walter’s face was impressive. “You think you’re so superior.” Walter jabbed Chance’s chest hard.
Chance flexed his muscle, then threw his arm up to block Walter’s right hook. He countered with a jab, nailing Walter in the face. The weasel screamed and stumbled backwards, clutching his eye and cheek.
“Teach him a lesson,” Walter yelled at his henchmen, pointing at Chance.
Chance inwardly groaned. He had hoped the confrontation wouldn’t turn into a brawl. Anyone could walk in at any point and get hurt, but it was obvious the thugs only understood the language of fists.
Luckily, Chance was fluent.
He had so many weapons in his reach, from pens, to bottles, to chairs, but Chance stuck with his fists and feet. No need to land in jail for killing the goons.
Unibrow lumbered forward while Dull Eyes circled to the side. They planned to trap him between. All right. He snapped his leg out and connected with Dull Eye’s knee. A loud crack echoed and Dull Eyes screeched as his leg gave out, dropping him to the floor.
“Nolan is going to fucking bury you,” Walter shouted, dancing side to side well out of range. “You hear me, asshole? He’s connected.”
Amid the wailing, Unibrow locked onto Chance and threw a punch. Chance dodged back and jabbed with an uppercut. Unibrow snapped his chin back in time to miss the blow and nailed Chance in the stomach.
Chance tightened his muscles to minimize the impact, the response involuntary after so many years of training, and thrust his knee up. Unibrow twisted his hips to avoid the connection and stumbled into a rack of wiper blades. The display crashed to the floor and Unibrow leapt back, forcing Chance to jump over the mess.
Unibrow took advantage of Chance’s vulnerability in that second in the air and hammered his arm around Chance’s neck, muscling him down.
Chance grabbed the guy’s arm as if to stop from being choked, but took advantage of the distraction to pick the goon’s pocket. He’d spied the outline of a cellphone and prayed it’d give him valuable intel. Shoving the device into his coveralls, he rammed his elbow into Unibrow’s gut at the same time he twisted.
Unibrow’s hold slackened and Chance whirled. He drove his knee up and this time successfully caught Unibrow in the groin. The goon howled and hunched over, grabbing his nuts. Chance grasped the guy’s h
ead and smashed his face against Chance’s raised knee.
Blood poured from Unibrow’s nose and he groaned, staggering back.
“STOP THIS RIGHT NOW!” Mandy barked out the order from the opened door like a commanding officer addressing unruly soldiers.
Walter whirled and charged for her. “You stupid bitch.” His finger stabbed toward her. “I tried to help you. Offered you a way to cut the debt.”
Chance pushed Unibrow out of the way and jumped over Dull Eyes. He slid to a stop in front of Mandy just as Walter approached her space.
“I sent you that text to see if we could work something out,” Walter continued, addressing the woman trying her hardest to move from behind Chance’s back. “You should’ve met me yourself instead of sending your rabid dog.”
“Text?” Mandy asked, but Chance didn’t want to get into that at the moment.
“Is that why you showed up with two men?” Chance spat. “How were they going to help you work things out?”
“I don’t answer to you,” Walter retorted sullenly, but his shifting eyes told Chance all he needed to know. The thugs were meant to scare Mandy, to bully her into whatever sexual trade Walter wanted to make.
“Collect your men and get out.” Chance glared at Walter, pointing at the door. “And remember what I said.”
“This isn’t over,” Walter shot over his shoulder as he helped Unibrow wobble with Dull Eyes to the SUV.
Ominous silence reigned in the waiting room and Chance steeled his spine. Lifting his eyes off the drops of blood near the downed display, he met Mandy’s gaze. Fury and fear warred in her irises, punching him harder than Unibrow’s jab to the stomach.
“What the hell happened?” She clenched her fists at her sides. “Did he attack you because I wasn’t here?” She studied the room now in disarray. “What did Walter mean by sending me a text? I never got a message from him.”
Damn. He did not want to explain but had to man up and own what he did. “He, uh, did send you a text yesterday evening.”