Jock laughed. “Oh yeah?” He stepped forward, holding the muzzle of the gun inches from Scott’s nose. “I’m so scared.”
Scott was going to get himself killed.
Valerie popped to her feet, gripping the beer display on the end-cap until she regained her balance. Her ears buzzed, but she scanned the shelves behind her for anything she could use as a weapon. Grabbing a tire iron off the rack, she sidestepped Mr. Grabby Hands on the floor and raced along the refrigerator doors at the rear of the store, close to the front entrance where she could sneak up on the gunman.
As soon as Scott noticed her, his jaw tightened. He sprang into action, knocking the gun aside as he stepped out of the line of fire. The big man roared and rushed him. Scott grabbed the guy’s neck and shoulder, and in some blur of a move, twisted him around and dropped him flat on his back. The gun clattered to the floor at his feet.
Jock groaned and started to rise.
Scott scooped the weapon off the floor, checked the ammo, and pointed it at the man’s chest. “Don’t move.”
“I’ll bet you don’t even know how to use it,” the idiot said, his deep, jeering voice hollow and lacking the bravado of moments before. Anyone who’d been paying attention could see that Scott knew his way around a weapon.
“Try me.” Scott’s voice didn’t betray a hint of nerves, no shake, no strain, just his usual smooth, flat tone.
Jock paled and slowly sat.
“Call the police,” Scott said to the clerk.
The man nodded and lifted the receiver.
Shit. Couldn’t he wait until they left? “We need to get out of here,” Valerie said. “Let me tie him up.”
Scott gave a sharp negative jerk with his head without looking at her. “I don’t want you anywhere near him.”
A little thrill ran through her. But he wasn’t just protecting her. If the thug grabbed her, he’d have leverage over Scott. She’d make things worse. Her stomach bottomed out.
“Lock him in the bathroom,” she said. She’d noticed an external latch on the door earlier. The idea of being locked in the grimy little space had given her the creeps. It wouldn’t hold the beast of a man for long, but maybe long enough.
Scott didn’t move. Piped-in jazz crackled through an overhead speaker, and the clerk on the phone recited his version of events to a dispatcher, his strained words tumbling over themselves like people scrambling to escape a fire.
“Scott—”
“Okay.” He waved Jock toward the back corner of the room, and gestured to the cashier. “Get something to block the door.”
They walked past the big man’s partner, who had awakened. Mustache stopped struggling against his bonds when he saw them coming.
Jock kicked him in the side. “Worthless piece of—”
“Enough,” Scott said, his voice low, but all the more menacing for it.
His captive glared at him and Valerie in turn, but entered the small restroom and closed the door without a fight.
Sirens wailed outside, faint but growing closer.
She took a new padlock off the hardware shelf, unwrapped it, and unlocked it with fumbling fingers. Leaving the combination sticker on the back, she hooked it through the loop of the latch and closed it, pulling down to test.
They both turned at a loud clank behind them. The clerk pushed a hand-operated pallet truck carrying a six-foot high stack of Budweiser cases.
“Perfect,” Scott said, helping the man angle the pallet into position in front of the bathroom door. “That should hold him until the cops arrive.”
“Thank you,” the older man said.
Scott grabbed Valerie’s hand. “Sorry we can’t stick around.” He gave the gun to the cashier, butt first.
“They won’t be able to get your license plate off the camera.”
“Good to know,” Scott said, tugging her toward the door. A little bell dinged as they crossed the threshold. “Appreciate it.”
“Semper Fi, buddy.”
“Oorah.” Scott released the door and they raced to the van.
“Where else are you hurt?” Scott’s hands shook on the wheel as he sped away from the gas station and onto the freeway, his body coming down from the adrenaline rush. And the rush of anger from seeing that asshole’s hands on Valerie. He’d wanted to do a lot more than choke the guy out.
“Nowhere,” she said, unable to hide the tremor in her voice. “Thanks to you.”
“Good, so I don’t have to feel bad when I ask what the hell you were thinking sneaking up on that guy. Were you trying to get yourself killed?” He scanned his mirrors repeatedly. “A fucking tire iron against a giant with a gun,” he muttered.
“You’re one to talk,” she said, her voice defensive. “You didn’t even have a weapon, and as you just pointed out, he was huge and armed.”
Only an idiot wouldn’t have been nervous about facing down that asshat, but Scott had confidence in his skills. The Marines—and his childhood—had trained him well. But he knew nothing about Valerie except that she had frozen when her attacker pulled a knife.
“I wanted you out of harm’s way so I wouldn’t have to worry about you. If I’d needed your help I would have asked for it.”
“But it’s okay to leave me behind to worry about you,” she said, her voice vibrating with anger.
“I may not look like much, but I can hold my own.” He clamped his mouth shut before anything else stupid tumbled out. All his old insecurities came rushing back, and he hated himself for it.
Valerie laughed without humor. “Not look like much? You freaking radiate danger with your unshakeable calm and all those muscles…” She licked her lips and focused on the road ahead. “Anyone smart would stay out of your way, but still, that guy was twice your size. And he had a gun. Would you expect one of your Marine Corps buddies to sit back and do nothing?”
“No, but they’re trained. You’re not.”
She gripped the edge of her seat and stared out the side window at the morass of lights from the cities that made up the never-ending Los Angeles metro. The two feet of space between them suddenly felt like a mile.
“Look, I know you were trying to help. I do appreciate that… So, thanks.” He cleared his throat, but what else was there to say? He was used to working with teammates who knew their roles and whose skills he trusted.
He ignored her as she studied his profile. He had more important things to worry about right now. Like the freeway, which was too damn empty. “We don’t have long before the cops realize it was us. They’ll be suspicious immediately since we left the scene.”
She nodded glanced out the back window. “How did that guy know you were a Marine?”
“Maybe he recognized one of us from the news. Or he noticed my HOG’s tooth necklace.”
“Hog’s tooth?”
“HOG stands for hunter of gunmen. It’s a designation we get when we graduate from scout sniper training. The HOG’s tooth—the bullet—is part of the ceremony.”
“A bullet because you’re a sniper?”
“No, because Marines are as superstitious as anyone, and the military loves its lore.” Turned out, he loved it too. How many times had he wished for a protective talisman as a kid? Now he had one, and he’d fucking earned it. “The story goes that there’s one bullet destined to end your life. A round with your name on it, so to speak. Until it’s fired, you’re invincible. The HOG’s tooth symbolizes that bullet, and the idea is that as long as you keep it on you, you’re safe.”
“Oh.”
Please don’t laugh. He shouldn’t care what she thought about it, but he did.
“Don’t lose the necklace, then,” she said, her voice earnest. “We need all the help we can get.”
He released his breath. Damn straight.
Her gaze was on him again. At the next opportunity, he’d grab a shirt from his bag in the back. “Once the police get a look at the surveillance footage, they’ll know what we look like now.”
“And they’ll know about th
e van.” Her head dropped back.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’ll be all over the news in a couple hours, but we need to get off the road now. There’s not enough traffic to get lost in the crowd.”
“Can we stop at a truck stop?”
“Seriously?”
“I have an idea,” she said. “But we need a place with a big store. The kind with touristy knick-knacks and stuff.”
She didn’t elaborate, but she’d proven herself with the stash of money and clothes earlier. He was willing to go along for now.
A few miles down the road, he spotted a tall sign for Tough Tony’s Truck Harbor and exited the freeway. The lot was brightly lit and crammed with semis, but the car lot was mostly empty. From the parking stall, he had a clear view of a lanky, bearded Black man standing behind the store’s counter. The rest of the shop was hidden from view, but there were only a few people sitting at the counter in the attached diner.
It was four in the morning, after all.
“Hang on,” he said. “You can’t go inside with my shirt on your arm.” Unbuckling his seat belt, he retrieved a first aid kit from under his seat. “Let me see,” he said, with a little wave.
Her gaze followed his every move, making him acutely aware that he was still half naked. Sweat trickled down his back, and he forced aside the unhelpful memory of her pressed to his body. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged him. Had anyone ever hugged him?
He hadn’t quite known what to do with her at first, but he wouldn’t mind a repeat now. Especially if she were shirtless too.
Jesus. Focus.
Scooting to the edge of his seat, he gently took her arm, which lay across the armrests between them. He cleaned her wound with an alcohol swab, using gentle strokes, feeling every wince as if it were his own. Now that he could see the cut without the blood, it didn’t appear deep enough to require stitches, thank God. He had first aid training, but he was no medic. “Have you had a tetanus shot recently?”
She shrugged. “I think I had a booster a few years ago.”
Not like they could do anything about it right now. He applied antibiotic ointment and covered the wound with a large gauze pad, taping down the edges. “How’s that?”
“Good, thanks.” She withdrew her arm and reached for the door.
“You go in,” he said. “I’ll keep watch from out here.” And put on a shirt while he was at it. “If I honk, you drop everything and get the hell out.”
It was too soon for video from the gas station robbery to be in the news. Her disguise—even without the fake glasses—should still be solid.
“Okay.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were tucked away in the dim corner of an apartment complex parking lot that butted up against the back of a deserted strip mall, eating crackers with hummus and drinking pop. In addition to snacks, she’d come out of the store with window markers and a buttload of bumper stickers.
“You ready?” he asked, offering her the last cracker.
Waving off the food, she nodded. “Let’s do it.”
He had to admit, her plan was pretty smart. The cops might not have been able to make out the van’s license plate on the camera, but they’d be able to see the rear of the van, at least from an angle. It was currently devoid of anything but a dealer decal. With Valerie’s stickers, they could change that.
“Before we put them on, we need to make them look old.” She took the stickers from the bag, handed him the markers, and opened the passenger door, careful to unlatch it slowly to minimize the noise.
Scott exited his side, flinching at the squeak of the hinges in his own door, and met her by the back bumper. “Can you get this off?” she asked, pointing to the dealer logo.
While he used his pocketknife to pry off the shiny plastic letters, she spread the stickers face down on the asphalt in a single layer the way he’d laid out the cards from his Memory game as a kid. Then she walked back and forth on them, occasionally twisting her foot.
She held up a UCLA sticker that was now smeared with dark streaks and punctured through the A. Peeling back one corner, she rubbed the sticky backing on the ground and then pulled the paper completely off.
“Any preference?” she whispered.
He shook his head, and she placed the decal neatly on the rear window. With its drooping corner and weathered face, the sticker looked like it had been there for years. “Brilliant.”
How could he not admire a woman who understood camouflage?
Twenty minutes later, the back of the van was plastered with logos for the Los Angeles Kings hockey team, Zuma Beach, two surfboard companies, and a bunch of quips about global warming and world peace.
“I told the cashier we were playing a trick on a friend,” she said, keeping her voice low even though they were far from any windows.
“Nice.” He nodded. “What do you think?”
While she was working on the stickers, he had used the paint pens to draw volleyballs and write messages on the side and rear windows.
Bump, set, spike!
Sand Dogs are #1!
Dig it!
Valerie gave him a thumbs up and a huge smile, and God damn if he didn’t puff with pride like a pathetic schoolboy.
Inside the van again, he pointed to the pull-down shades mounted at the top of the windshield and over each door. “Get those, will you?”
While she blocked out the light—and prying eyes—up front, he clambered into the cargo space and tugged opaque blue curtains across the side and back windows. The place he’d been calling home since he arrived in California was neat enough. His clothing and camera bags were lined up on one side of the van, along with a small camp stove, a five-gallon water jug, a box of basic kitchen supplies, and what basically amounted to a chamber pot.
The previous owner had covered the knee-busting corrugated metal floor with a thick piece of plywood. At night, Scott rolled out a dense foam pad and spread open a sleeping bag, using a thin blanket to stay warm.
He and Valerie could both fit, but it would be tight. Which, granted, his body was totally on board with, but she wasn’t some woman he could mess around with and walk away from, no matter how much he wanted to experience the touch of her lips or the soft skin of her magnificent breasts.
Choking back the groan that built in his chest at the thought of her right here, naked beneath him, he took several deep breaths and then rolled out the bedding.
They were in this together for who knew how long, which meant Valerie was off limits. As if she even wanted a man like him—a killer—touching her anyway.
He glanced up and caught her watching him, her face mostly hidden in shadow.
Swallowing hard, he said, “You can sleep back here, I’ll take one of the front seats.”
“That’s not fair to you. I’m sure we can both fit.”
Especially if they spooned. Good Lord. Where was his legendary patience now? He bit back his protest. If he made too big a deal of this she’d know exactly what was going through his mind. Better to act like it was nothing.
“I trust you,” she said.
He almost laughed. That made one of them.
Valerie squeezed between the seats and into the back of the van, her heart drumming. The vehicle seemed to shrink, and her awareness narrowed to Scott’s breath, the unreadable expression on his handsome face, the makeshift bed they were going to share…
Needing a diversion, she took in the black bags neatly lined up against the wall, the small camping stove and box of supplies. The van might be a piece of crap, but he kept it clean and uncluttered.
“So this is how you spied on me in Zachari?”
He nodded. “I was one of the ‘surfers’ living out of his van, parked down the street from your rental.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t catch on. I thought I was so…aware.” How could she have missed him? Her father had trained her to be observant and alert, always. She might have gone lax over the years, but she’d been careful while
on the run. Or so she’d thought. Scott had followed her around for days even before she ran, and she’d never once felt a tingle of alarm.
“Don’t feel bad,” he said, apparently reading her thoughts. “We see what we expect to see. And I did learn a thing or two about blending while in the Marines. Hell, half of scout sniper training is learning how to get close to someone without being noticed.”
She bit her lower lip. His level of training should make her feel better, but it didn’t. “Why scout sniper?”
“That’s what we’re called.” He sat on the wheel well, arms resting on his knees, hands loose. Hardly the picture of a trained killer, which was probably part of what made him an expert.
A shiver ran through her.
“Taking out targets is such a small part of what we do,” he said. “Most of the time we’re on reconnaissance and overwatch, providing intel for the platoon and covering their maneuvers.”
“Is it lonely?”
He gave her a strange look. Most likely, people usually asked how many kills he had or whether he got a thrill from taking lives. She wasn’t sure she wanted those answers.
“Despite the lone-wolf reputation the media gives us, we usually work in pairs or teams of four.”
“Yeah,” she scratched an invisible pattern into her jeans, “but you’re separate from the rest of the troops a lot, aren’t you? Not just physically, but in skill set.”
“I guess so.” He studied her face with an intensity that made her toes curl. “Being a HOG definitely sets you apart from the crowd, even in the Marines.” Finally giving her some relief from his probing stare, he peeked around the edge of the curtain to his right. The downside of privacy was lack of visibility to the outside.
“It was like that for me when I was a kid, working scams with my papá, and then later…” Her jaw tightened and she forced the memories aside. “No one could relate to me.” She slipped off her running shoes and sat, tucking one foot beneath her. “Honestly, nothing’s changed.”
“That sucks,” he said, suddenly on the move, checking their surroundings from all angles. Even several inches shy of six feet, he was too tall to stand upright, so he hunched over, his back curled like the handle of a cane.
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