by Norris, Kris
“We do—back in Seattle. We didn’t check-in with local law enforcement. Haven’t notified anyone we’re going to make an arrest. Not to mention Cannon prefers to keep things local. Where they’re nice and tidy. Where he has all sorts of connections in case things go sideways. Unlike here. All of which I told you before we followed the bastard across two state lines.”
“That’s only an issue if we get arrested. Which we won’t.” She rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Six, it’s not going to be much of a fight. I’ll take the two on the left. You take the two on the right, and we’ll have Martin all to ourselves.”
“You’re going to take on both of those guys?”
She scrunched up her face, giving the men in question a hard look. “What’s wrong? You need me to handle yours, too?”
“They’re armed, double your weight, and a good foot taller.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on them.”
“Or you’ll get us both arrested when you have to resort to capping one of them between the eyes.”
She scoffed. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, partner. And here I thought you believed in me.”
“I do. Proven by the fact we’re even standing here, having this conversation. It’s just… One day, you’re gonna bite off more than you can handle, sweetheart.”
She smiled, her full lips lifting. Those eyes still gleaming. “Maybe. But, not tonight.”
“I guess that depends.”
“On?”
“On whether or not we get out of here before the bartender calls the cops. He doesn’t look like the type to stand by and let a fight play out. Ten to one he knows the local sheriff…personally. Has the guy on speed dial.”
She sighed then took a moment to scan the bar. The hairs on Six’s neck prickled, and he knew he was about to regret allowing her to talk him into this. And he didn’t need his damn extra senses to see it coming. It was a giant neon sign flashing above them.
FUBAR.
Yup, things were about to get fucked up but good.
Kam paused, her eyes doing that shifting thing when she was working out a puzzle, before she gave him another stunning smile.
“Kameron—”
“Relax. You’re right. We need a different approach. So, stay here until you get my signal, then ride to the rescue like a good little soldier.”
He tightened his grip on her wrist. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing bad.” She slipped her hand free then took a few steps away, glancing back at him still grinning. “Just get close. Create a distraction.” She winked, damn it. “Whatever works.”
Six reached for her, but she was already moving. Sauntering up to the bar. Elbows on the counter, one foot tapping the floor behind her. Her ass hugging a stool. The denim clinging in all the right places.
Martin looked over. Stared, then rearranged his dick. He nudged one of the men, nodding toward Kam.
Six shifted to the other side, letting it play out. He knew how to control his emotions. Bury them. Emotions didn’t belong on an op, and they didn’t belong in this bar. He was working a case. Not on a date.
And he held firm. Stayed in the shadows. Waiting. He knew how she operated. What she’d do. Let them get close then pop one guy in the throat, the other in the groin. That would be his signal to move—prevent the other men from joining in. And her plan was moving along perfectly. Two of the guys had branched off—were sidling up beside her all cozy. Eyes slightly lust dazed. Focused on the healthy dose of cleavage she was sporting—had she really needed to undo three buttons? Show off the lacy white bra she had on?
They didn’t suspect a thing. Hands nowhere near the bulges beneath their armpits. Their movements a bit stiff, probably like their dicks. All the blood rushing to the wrong head. It got smart men killed. For these assholes, it gave them tunnel vision. Blocked out the fact you could just make out a hint of her ankle holster as she hooked the heel of one boot on the lower rung of the stool. The slight raise by her other ankle that hid her knife. All indicators she wasn’t looking for a good time—was actively on the prowl for blood, not sex.
Everything was proceeding exactly how she’d intended—men separated. Martin too focused on his boner to see her as a threat. Everyone’s guard down—until one of the mother fuckers touched her ass. Six knew it was coming. His damn sixth sense had decided to kick back in. Right then. Give him a ghosted snapshot of that bastard’s palm on the rounded curve. Heading south. About two heartbeats before it went down.
And Six lost it. Imploded. Rational thought a distant memory as he took four steps then struck. No waiting for her signal. No warning. No trying to take the high road. Trying to talk it out. Take Martin in peacefully. Ask his men to step aside.
Just Six’s fist catching the first guy in the throat, knocking him back then doubling him over. Six grabbed the creep’s neck, pulled him into a raised knee, and the guy was down. Out cold on the floor. That broke the silence.
Martin’s other guy locked his fingers around Six’s arm, which only made snagging him easier. A hand over the creep’s, a pivot, and Six had the idiot’s arm extended. Shoulder already popping out of the joint as he levered the guy up. A kick shattered his knee, had the jerk crumpling to the ground.
Six punched him twice in the face, just to be sure. To expend a bit of the energy thrumming through him. Then, he was on Martin. Knife out and through the bastard’s hand—pinning him to the counter. A quick elbow to Martin’s face cut off the man’s scream mid-note—had him slumped over. Mumbling. Drooling.
Six turned in time to see one of the guys pull Kam off his buddy—spin her around then backhand her to the floor. Last thing that asshole did with that hand because Six was on him. That hand smashed against the counter—fingers bent back. Cracking against the strain. Two hits to the head and an elbow had blood splattering on the floor. Pooling beneath what used to be the guy’s nose. A few kicks to the leg, the groin, and it was over. The guy laid out across the bar. Groaning. Whimpering.
The one Kam had downed tried to push onto his hands. Hit the floor hard when Six booted him in the face. Heard his jaw snap. Served the bastard right. Touching her ass. Thinking he could treat her like a piece of meat.
Six moved over to her—went to one knee. “Kam? Come on, sweetheart, look at me.”
She groaned, blinked, then groaned, again. Palming her cheek. Eyes slowly fluttering open, giving him fleeting glimpses of green. Took about a minute for her to finally focus on him. Glare. “What the hell, Six? I had it all under control.”
He snorted. “You are some piece of work, lady. Up you get.”
He cupped her elbow. Helped her stand. Stubborn girl swayed to her right, caught herself on his shoulder, then straightened. She blinked several times, though, he knew it didn’t do much to clear her vision. Not with the way she stumbled the few feet to the bar. Kicking the guy who’d hit her. Hard.
Six walked over to her. Brow arched. “Feel better, now?”
“A bit. The jerk has big meaty palms. That hurt.”
Six pushed down the resulting jolt of anger. The one that wanted him to kick the guy’s ass all over, again, for touching her. Now wasn’t the time to delve into that train of thought. Not with the way Kam was looking around—scanning the bar as if searching for a new target. Someone to take out her frustrations on. If the men hadn’t already been out cold, Six had no doubts she’d be raging on them like a damn badger. A weapon in each hand, raining the fury of hell down on them. Instead, she grabbed his knife and pulled it free, wiping Martin’s blood off on his jacket before he fell to floor, his hand cradled against his chest.
Six took the knife she offered then sighed—surveying the mess he’d left in the bar. Overlooking the fact that the staff were still cowering in a corner behind the bar, looking as if they were just waiting for a chance to make a run for the door, the rest of the takedown couldn’t have gone worse. Even if they wrestled Martin into their truck before the cops arrived—because Six hadn’t missed the
way the bartender was clutching a phone to his chest as he stared at the two of them in horror—he’d just singlehandedly left a shit ton of evidence behind. Probably had been caught on video taking the creep down.
Kam had Martin tied up. Leaning against the bar. She looked over at him. Smiled, and everything else just faded. Gone. Except for that smile. Those green eyes with the gold ring around the centers.
He crossed over to her, considered staring a while longer, when his senses kicked in. No images. No sounds, just the hairs on his arms prickling. Trouble brewing—a second away from boiling over. He dove at Kam, caught her in his arms, then rolled. Over Martin, across the floor and behind an overturned table. Stopping with his gun leveled. Sights on the two men charging through the doorway. Big black Glocks aimed their way. Matching vests blending in with the shadows—except for the yellow block letters on the front.
U.S. Marshals.
Well, fuck.
Chapter Two
Kameron had been wrong. This was the clusterfuck she’d been referencing before. Six plastered on top of her. Gun drawn. Aimed. He was perfectly calm. No harsh breathing. No sweating. Just him. In control. Primed to face any danger. Take any measure to get them to safety.
Her to safety.
In the several months she’d been partnering with him, he’d never once worried about his own well-being. But his brothers—his team? The man willingly sacrificed anything for them. Had held true to that creed in all the joint missions they’d performed—which had pretty much been every job she’d worked for Cannon’s company, Wayward Souls. And this was no different. Six was the barrier between her and whatever threat was aimed their way.
And all because she’d screwed up. Taken too long knocking that first guy on his ass—allowed his buddy to take a swing at her—connect. Strike her down. And it had hurt a lot more than she’d let on. Even now, her cheek throbbed just below her eye. The pain radiating up into her temples. And her vision still hadn’t fully cleared.
Not that it hindered her view of Six. All six feet, two-hundred and twenty pounds of him. Pressed against her from chest to toes. He was close enough for her to see the pulse point at the base of his neck—steady. Strong. The way his muscles flexed with every small shift in his body. Smell the tantalizing aroma of cottonwood and citrus. Not to mention feel the hard ridge pressing against her hip. She wasn’t sure if it was a reaction to the adrenaline or if he was half as affected by her that she was by him, but the man was large. Like every other part of him. Unyielding.
She tried to take a breath, failed against his crushing weight. The way he shifted just a bit to cover even more of her—eliminate the chance of anything harming her. Bullets. Knifes. Hell, the roof could collapse and she’d still be safe. He’d take the brunt of all of it.
Kameron wasn’t sure what threat he’d perceived. She’d scanned the bar a moment before he’d grabbed her and rolled them behind the overturned table. Other than several patrons cowering in the corner and the staff huddled behind the bar, the place had been empty. Nothing remotely dangerous, other than her complicated feelings for the man.
Worries for later. After they’d dealt with whatever was between them and the door—heading home with Clive Martin handcuffed in the back. Maybe stashed in the flatbed, not that Six would go for that. He didn’t let his emotions rule his judgment. Wouldn’t subject even someone like Martin to harsher treatment than necessary.
Of course, the knife had seemed a bit…out-of-character. Though, that was on her, too. Six had obviously altered his approach to handle the men as quickly as possible. Get to her faster. She’d caught a quick glimpse of his eyes before that other asshole had hit her. They’d been narrowed. Heated. Edged with a hint of fear. Not for himself. For her. That he wouldn’t reach her quick enough. That she’d get hurt on his watch.
God, if she didn’t up her game—stop making rash decisions—she’d end up getting him injured. Or worse. Killed. Which was crazy because until two years ago, she’d been the most level-headed, non-spontaneous person in the service. Probably on the damn planet. She’d triple checked every piece of intel—every lead, every photo. Every damn rumor or statement before trusting in it. Risking the men who’d use it to infiltrate a compound. Or retrieve a HVT—high value target. Because any mistake she made cost lives. Blood that would stain her hands.
Then, the world had exploded into a flash of white light. Twisted metal and bones, and she’d learned—fast, hard—that life didn’t wait for you to dissect every detail. To plan. That only those who jumped, who took the smallest of opportunities to act, survived.
She’d survived. Barely. Which was also crazy because she’d been the least trained soldier in the unit. Had been the person the other men had been ordered to protect. Yet, through some weird act of fate, she’d come out of the wreckage mostly unscathed. Had helped the only other recon soldier alive trudge his way across forty miles of hostile territory. Evading enemy forces. Constantly adapting—wondering if the next patrol would catch them. If the village they took refuge in would turn them over. If her comrade would bleed out before she found a way back.
They’d been lucky. Had been able to make their way to one of the outlying bases. But it had changed her. All that time—the numbing chill whenever she heard a noise. The constant roiling in her stomach whenever they took cover. That endless sensation of falling off a cliff with no way to climb back up. That it was just blind luck that they’d survived. She’d vowed never to feel like that, again. To be the kind of warrior that jumped in. Had the skills to face whatever threat crossed her path.
And she’d done a damn good job of it. Endless hours of training. Of sweat and blood. She’d turned herself into a machine. Except where she’d gone too far in the other direction. Had virtually lost her ability to judge which situations warranted extreme actions. Worried more about not going in than if it was the wrong decision.
Which is why she suspected Cannon had partnered her with Six. The guy was November cool with moves she’d never seen before. And he had a habit of sensing things—knowing when a situation was about to turn ugly a few heartbeats before it actually did. She wasn’t sure if he was psychic or just really great at reading the room. At anticipating outcomes through some sort of mathematical equation he did subconsciously inside his head. But he acted on those instincts, usually saving whoever he was with from getting hurt. Killed.
Just like now. Lying on top of her. Determination in the hard line of his jaw. The flex of his muscles. He was going to keep her safe or die trying.
That messed with her brain. And her heart. Hell, her entire body. The older version of Kameron would have accepted the attraction. What woman wouldn’t? He was tall, broad. Heavily muscled. He had honor sweating out of every pore and courage that knew no bounds. He wasn’t pretty, like Ellis’ husband, Colt. That guy could be a damn Hollywood actor with his boyish good looks. His charm.
Six was more—rugged. Lethal looking. A man who’d seen hard times and risen to the challenge. He had a few scars—chest. Back. Arms. Nothing like Rigs—another teammate. He had the kind people noticed. On his face. His chest. Large, raised keloids that spoke of pain and suffering. Of bravery and sacrifice. Not that they detracted from his appearance, but there was no hiding them. Pretending they didn’t exist.
Six’s weren’t like that. More subtle reminders that he’d spent his life in the fray of battle but had emerged intact, on the other side. Nothing about him was soft. Even smiling didn’t lift his air of danger. Though, it did make her pulse race. Her damn heart jackhammer in her chest. All of which was dangerous because the new Kameron didn’t want connections. To have someone she could lose. Friends. Teammates. Those she could handle. Could quantify. Seeing Six any differently scared the crap out of her.
With that sixth sense of his, she’d often wondered if he knew how conflicted she was. That not every rash action she took was a result of the op. That, sometimes, she just needed some distance. That staying close to him affected her. Made he
r pulse ratchet up. That she was often on the verge of having to gasp in enough oxygen to keep from having dots swarm her vision. That it was taking all her strength not to trace the outline of his mouth with her finger. Taste those lips she’d been staring at for months.
The ones pressed into a firm slash across his face as he stared at the doorway. There was a moment of fierce concentration, then a curse.
“Whoa. Easy, fellas.” Six slid off her—damn near had her eyes rolling back when his cock rubbed across her crotch—before holding up his hands. Allowing his Sig to rotate around his fingers. “Didn’t realize you guys were lawmen. Thought you were more of Martin’s men. Another threat we’d have to deal with.”
Footsteps. From beyond the table. But they sounded heavy. “Guns down then lay on your stomachs. Hands behind your heads.”
Six didn’t argue as he glanced at her, motioning with his chin. Kam cursed then rolled, following along as two men marched over to them, cuffing them then planting their asses in a couple of chairs. She looked over at Six, but he just shook his head, relaxing back as if he was waiting for a beer.
Christ, he was calm. Now that he wasn’t blocking her view, she had a clear understanding of how much crap they were in. The newcomers—U.S. Marshals. Which meant she and Six were about to get busted. Exactly what she’d promised wouldn’t happen.
This was her mistake. Her epic shit show. Six had warned her about crossing state lines. That there were rules they needed to follow. Hadn’t there been something about notifying local law before executing an arrest? About alerting them to the fact she and Six were actively hunting?
Crazy that she, of all people, didn’t have the answers stored inside her head that she’d just blindly followed. It had been her life for years—was still a huge part of who she was. But she’d ignored the warnings—ignored Six. Had suffered from tunnel vision because Clive Martin was exactly the kind of creep who personally pissed her off. Assault. Mostly women. Men like that brought back those four days of unrelenting terror. Of having to face the harsh realities of what would happen if she got caught. That she’d be better off eating a bullet than succumbing to being a prisoner because death was a far kinder fate than facing endless days, weeks, months—maybe years—of being held. Tortured. Raped.