by Hope Anika
“My business,” she replied tightly. “Not yours.”
Then she turned and headed into the building. The large, brick warehouse had once been a furniture factory, and she could still smell the lingering scent of lemon and cut wood; it calmed her. This was the smell of Charlie, of safety, acceptance and home.
The building was broken into several sections, the first a main lobby that faced the street. The second contained three working offices, a small server room/kitchen, a bathroom, and a conference center. The third consisted of a large back room with a set of narrow bunk beds and a pullout couch. The back half of the building had been left open and housed the Firm’s various assets: an old Winnebago, a pile of ancient surveillance equipment, a battered ten-speed bicycle. A boxing ring sat in one corner; in the other sat an ancient Harley Davison motorcycle, its chrome dull in the light.
A stolen motorcycle, the same one she’d rode in on seven years earlier, unmoved from where she’d parked it. Partially because it was heavy and a pain in the ass to move, but mostly because it was stolen.
“Do you have an address for Joseph Pierce?” Ruslan asked as they strode past the Winnebago.
Good. Back to business.
“Yes.” Not that she expected Joe to be there. Goons would be hunting him, too; she doubted he’d hang around at home and wait for them. Still, they had to start somewhere. “In my office.”
Her office, recently inherited from Charlie.
That thought sent a sudden, unexpected stab of piercing grief through her. Charlie. The best man she’d ever known; one who’d taught her that not all men were created equal. Some were far better than others.
She’d been ten the first time she met him; he and Wylie had shown up at one of their shows in Reno. Charlie had been everything her jackass of a father was not. In less than an hour’s time, he’d given her more kindness and love and respect than her father had in her entire lifetime.
Which had been a revelation.
When he’d slipped her his card before leaving, she’d hidden it away like treasure, praying that someday she’d get to see him again. That day came seven years later, when she’d turned up unannounced on his doorstep, a runaway on a stolen motorcycle, eleven dollars in her pocket and blood on her shoes. She’d been half afraid he would turn her away, or worse, rat her out to her father, but he’d done neither.
No, he did what Charlie always did for anyone in need: he opened his arms. He’d given her a home, a family, and steadfast, unwavering support. It had been like landing on the moon.
And if her father had ever come looking, Charlie hadn’t mentioned it. He’d protected her. Accepted her. Loved her.
He’d been tough but fair, always. He’d never hurt her. Or betrayed her. Or let her down. And now he was gone. Instantly, like a light winking out.
Goddamn it.
“Are you alright?” Ruslan asked as he pulled open the door that led to the front offices. His pale gaze was piercing, and Ash looked away.
“Peachy,” she replied flatly, stuffing the grief back down into the hollow well where it dwelled.
Like a frigging book. God help her.
They strode down the hall, and Butch’s voice floated toward them. Her heart leapt—Wylie!—and she hurried toward her office, where she found Butch sitting at her desk, talking on the phone, one of Charlie’s old CBs sitting in front of him.
Ruslan halted beside her, but not too close, and the scent of something sharp and glacial emanated from him, like the cutting bite of winter wind.
“Yes, ma’am,” Butch said into the phone. A pad of paper sat next to the CB, stamped with his illegible scrawl. “You just hold tight. And don’t worry—we’re on it.”
He hung up and blinked innocently when Ash frowned at him. “What?”
“Who was that?” she asked.
“A prospective client.” He pulled the pad of paper closer possessively. “I told her I’d be there in an hour.”
“What kind of case?”
“Didn’t say. Don’t think she wanted to talk on the phone.”
Ash only stared at him.
A potential case...a potential case they needed. Someone they couldn’t afford to turn away...but Joe Pierce needed finding, and Wanda and Eva needed saving, and the men in black needed a serious ass kicking.
She turned to Ruslan, but before she could speak, he said, “I will accompany you to speak with Joe Pierce.”
“You will do whatever the hell I tell you to do,” she retorted, her annoyance renewed.
“We are dealing with the unknown,” he replied in his remote, flat tone. “It is imprudent to act alone.”
She didn’t disagree. But that was not the frigging point.
“I ran the homicide department of the LVMPD for more years than you’ve been alive, missy,” Butch declared. “I can damn sure handle an interview with a prospective client.”
“Can you?” she demanded bluntly. “Because three hours ago you were drunk as a skunk.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Everyone knows that.”
“I can do this,” he insisted stubbornly.
They stared at one another, and Ruslan said, “There is no choice.”
Ash growled softly. This whole “boss” thing sucked the big one. She didn’t have the patience, the temperament or the desire to do the job. It had been thrust on her, and she didn’t like it and didn’t want it, but goddamn it, she had it, and that meant she was the one at the top.
Not Ruslan, who never stayed in his stinking lane. Something they were clearly going to have to discuss—sooner rather than later.
Along with the undisclosed nature of his professed debt to Charlie.
And his penchant for unwarranted violence.
And his insistence on sticking to her, and the Firm, like white on rice.
But not here. Not now.
“Captain Obvious to the rescue,” she muttered and flashed him a dark look. “Yet again.”
He only blinked, unmoved.
Like snarling at a statue.
“Fine,” she told Butch. “But take a shower before you go. You smell like a distillery.”
His cheeks flushed. “I planned to.”
She eyed the CB. The lights were on, and faint static rumbled from the unit. “Did you get Wylie?”
“Nope. Any chance you’re going to tell me who Eva Pierce is, and why I got abducted by the assholes looking for her?”
“Not at the moment.”
He glowered, but she only closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Worry ate at her; they were wasting time. The thought that Wylie wouldn’t be prepared for what he might run into made her want to hunt him down and sit on him. Protect him—which he didn’t need and wouldn’t appreciate. Wylie, for all his faults, was his father’s son, something few people understood.
Ruslan was right. Wylie could handle whatever came his way. But Ash didn’t care. He was all she had left, and the idea of losing him made panic tighten around her throat like a noose.
“You should go,” Ruslan said to Butch, and Butch turned to glare at him. Ruslan only stared back dispassionately. After a brief contest of wills—which Butch had no hope of winning—the older man stood with an annoyed huff.
“Be careful,” Ash told him. “Keep an eye out. Don’t—”
A knock sounded, cutting off her words. Her heart jerked again, and she stepped around Ruslan, careful not to touch him, and strode into the small lobby. The room was dark but for the pale golden light that streamed in from the streetlights. A tall, narrow shadow stood before the front door, outlined by the neon red glow of the pawnshop sign across the street.
She strode toward the door, but suddenly Ruslan was there, blocking the way.
“Wait,” he ordered, and in his hand was his SIG Sauer, its silver surface flashing in the faint light.
“I don’t need frigging Secret Service,” she snarled.
“I am your first line of defense,” he replied, unmoving. “
You must learn to use me.”
“This isn’t chess, and you aren’t a pawn.”
He only turned to look at her, his pale eyes glinting like diamonds in the dark room. “I am your blade, Ashling. I am no good to you sheathed.”
There was no good reason for the shiver that suddenly moved through her. Or the unexpected wash of heat that bathed her skin.
Goddamn it.
Another knock. Ruslan carefully unlocked the door, his gun at his side, and pulled it open a fraction. Ash peered around him to see a kid standing there, tall, skinny, blond. Wearing Wylie’s leather jacket.
Out front, Charlie’s old red GMC—now Wylie’s new red GMC—sat parked across the street.
“Um, hi,” the kid said. “Wylie sent me. I’ve got a message for someone named Ash?”
She pulled the door from Ruslan’s hold, wrapped her hand around the lapel of the leather coat and yanked the boy inside. “What’s the message?”
He looked at Ruslan, and the SIG Sauer, and took a step back. He was young—no more than eighteen, tops, with dirty blond hair and dark bottle-green eyes—eyes that flickered over her and Butch before returning to the pale gleam of Ruslan’s weapon. “Wylie...he said you’d pay me, but your sign out front...it says private investigation?”
Impatience gripped her. “So?”
“So... I mean, would you be willing to maybe trade?” The kid rubbed the back of his neck, clearly nervous. His gaze never left the SIG Sauer. “Instead of paying me, I mean?”
Ruslan was utterly still. Watching. Waiting.
Ash remembered his hand wrapping TJ’s throat and stepped in between them.
“You want help,” she said.
“Please,” the boy replied, his eyes dark.
Another broken bird. It was like gravity.
A certainty.
“Give me the message,” she told him. “And I’ll think about it.”
He stared at her, as if considering that. And then Ruslan shifted, drawing his gaze, and he immediately dug into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, which he shoved at her.
She took the paper and unfolded it, revealing Wylie’s neat, slanted scrawl.
Going fishing with the girls. Pay the kid.
Relief flooded through her, made her knees weak; her throat swelled. For a long, silent moment she just stood there, clutching the paper, her heart beating wildly, Ruslan’s icy scent surrounding her.
They were safe.
Wylie had found Wanda and Eva, and they were headed up to Charlie’s fishing cabin.
Thank you, Universe.
“What kind of help do you need?” she asked quietly and shoved the paper into her pocket.
“I need to find someone.”
The boy was staring at her, and she immediately recognized the look on his face.
Desperation. But worse—hope.
Shit. “Who?”
“My brother.”
“Explain,” Ruslan ordered, and the kid jumped a little.
“He got into it with my stepdad and took off a couple of weeks ago. I thought he’d come home, I mean, he’s only fifteen, but he’s still gone, and my mom’s freaking out, and the prick she’s married to won’t let her call the cops.” The kid rubbed the back of his neck again. “I can’t find him. I was checking out the hostel when I ran into Wylie. He said you’d pay me if I helped them out, but if you could help me find Jace, that would be...I mean, would you do that?”
“We’re not a charity, kid,” Butch put in from behind her. “Retainer’s five grand.”
“We need to go,” Ruslan added, unmoved by the boy’s plight.
“I’m willing to work for it,” the kid added hurriedly. “I’ll do whatever you want. Please.”
Another responsibility. Another dependent; just what she didn’t need.
And she knew she should turn him aside—the Firm could not afford a pro-bono case that would eat up time and money—but he’d risked himself to help Wylie.
Even if he didn’t know it. And in her book, that counted—big time.
She sighed, defeated. Universe 1, Ash 0. “What’s your name?”
“Jesse. Jesse Banner.”
“Well, Jesse Banner, I’m Ash. This is Ruslan, and that’s Butch. Give Butch your contact info, and we’ll see what we can do.” She turned to Butch. “Get his number—and pay him. Then take him wherever he wants to go.” Her gaze moved to Ruslan. “Park Wylie’s truck in the loading bay. I’ll get Joe’s address and meet you at the Impala.”
Butch scratched his head and muttered, but Ruslan simply took the keys from Jesse, exited the building and strode to Wylie’s truck.
“You sure?” Butch asked.
Ash looked at the kid, who watched her with that stupid, ridiculous, goddamn hope in his eyes.
“Yes.” No. “Make sure he leaves the coat.”
CHAPTER
-6-
“Quit fidgeting, baby. Own it.”
Wanda shot him a look that could have curdled milk. Wylie only bared his teeth in a sharp grin and tightened his hold on her.
She fit perfectly tucked against him, her small, lush body pressed against his.
On his other side, the girl named Eva—a beautiful girl, but young, just a kid, and not someone Wylie would have suspected of having men armed with high-grade explosives pursuing her, and he wondered why, and who she was, and just what the hell was going on, but there hadn’t been time for those questions, not yet—Eva slumped in a dejected fashion, her hands thrust into her pockets, her hair tucked beneath the Green Bay ball cap he’d put on her. She was skinny and shapeless beneath the old used football jersey she wore.
Look like a guy, he’d told her, and damned if she didn’t. Wanda, on the other hand, was fighting her disguise every step of the way.
“These pants are ludicrous,” she muttered, shifting against him again. “Material is not meant to go there.”
Wylie thought she looked like a million bucks. He’d known that beneath those ugly clothes she wore there would be curves, but he hadn’t expected how gloriously round and firm she was. He hadn’t expected her golden skin to glow where it peeked at him from within the patchwork of lace she wore, or how her hair would feel clinging to the arm he had around her, long and curling and thick, the color of rich coffee and scented by the same spice that kissed her skin. He hadn’t known she would flood his senses like a drug and tempt him into getting them all killed.
“Please don’t hold me so close,” she told him, her voice tight.
He made her uncomfortable; Wylie had known that since the first five minutes he’d spent with her, on that silent, awkward drive to the Desert Bloom to retrieve her things. But whether that was because he was a man—or because of the type of man he was—he didn’t know, and up to this point, he hadn’t given a damn.
Liar.
He saw the judgment in her gaze; innocent and sheltered and self-righteous. Clueless. And while that judgment had been—at least partially—earned, the rest was pure bullshit. But the look on her face when he’d stripped off his shirt made him realize it wasn’t only judgment that made her turn away.
It was awareness. Heat. Desire.
And as soon as that realization had struck him—like a steel-toed boot to the noggin—his determination to stay far, far away from her had taken a killing blow.
Goddamn it.
He tugged down the battered cowboy hat he wore and forced his gaze away from her, toward the city streets that surrounded them. He felt bald beneath the cheap felt hat, and his face was raw from the fresh shave with a dull blade. The jeans and shirt weren’t too bad, and he’d kept his own boots, so he knew he looked good-ole-boy enough, but the get-up felt like the lie it was.
Still, no one had looked at them twice, so he must be carrying it off. Hell, considering how Wanda looked—poured into those tight-ass pants, her breasts lovingly outlined by that stretchy lace top, her hair flowing around her in a mass of dark brown silk, and those boots—those fuck-me boots,
hugging her calves up to her knees, the heels so high she’d had to hold onto him to walk—Wylie doubted anyone was even looking at him.
At least the night was dry and warm; the sounds of the city serenaded them. Laughter and sirens and stereos blaring. Horns, music, voices arguing. Artificial light in a rainbow of colors flooded the streets until it resembled the dance floor of a popular nightclub, and somewhere a slot paid out in a noisy cascade of silver.
They’d exited the Hostel out the basement door and clung to shadows as they’d made their way several blocks over, to where another bus stop sat, a scarred Plexiglas square riddled by cigarette butts and refuse. They stood beside the plastic box, awaiting the Las Vegas Metropolitan Bus Service red line—which stopped at the Strip before heading east—something Wylie knew because in his pocket was a bus schedule, courtesy of the kid—Jesse—he’d sent to Ash in his truck.
A kid he hoped like hell was good for his word, and that Ash would get his message, and that his truck—the only thing he had of his pop’s that he truly gave a damn about—wouldn’t end up jacked and gone forever.
But that was a chance he’d had to take. When he realized the kid could pass for him—at least to anyone who wasn’t looking too close—there’d been no choice but to give up his coat and his truck, and to create a decoy that just might save their collective asses, because there wasn’t much else left to them.
And he didn’t plan on getting caught.
Wylie didn’t know who Eva was—or why someone would want her so badly they’d detonate a bomb in a residential area—but he knew they weren’t going to get her. He hoped Ash had gotten his message; hell, he hoped Ash was still breathing.
Dead men in my living room.
Which meant what—exactly?
Ruslan better be around—because Butch was damn near useless—and he’d better be putting his Spock ass in front of her. He didn’t seem like a man to run from trouble, but Wylie wasn’t certain he’d run toward it, either. The man was like frigging concrete. Whether or not he’d sacrifice seemed a foolish question, and Wylie was no fool.
Asshole has skills, though. Ruslan had backed him up right the few times they’d worked together. But that didn’t mean he would do the same when up against men with C-4 in their pockets. Bail runners were one thing; mercenaries were another.