The Price of Grace

by Diana Muñoz Stewart

  She angled her knee to aid her pushing hand. The seat began to give way.

  Hopefully, Justice would keep whoever was firing too busy to peer through the heavily tinted windows into the car’s interior.

  The car door opened. “Let me help you there, Gracie.”

  She flinched, banged her head. Ouch. Southern Accent? Southern Accent knew her name? What the hell was going on?

  The car shifted. Guy must be big. There was a creak, and the seat was yanked open.

  Air. She sucked it in, turned and pulled her shoulders loose. Freed. She sat up and blinked at fresh air and man.

  Uhm. Oh. She stared straight into the startled face of way-too-handsome. Sunset-brown hair topped by a USA ball cap, a big, easy grin defined by the persistent crease of overused dimples, labor-tan skin, and the sexiest nose she’d ever seen. A roughly carved block, his nose added challenge and strength to a sun-rugged portrait.

  Her heartbeat skittered between the dread of tense alarm and the uncertainty of unexpected arousal. Her skin heated to a temperature rarely seen outside a volcano. Of course.

  The sensitivity in her body painted every emotion upon her skin in hues of red. From pleased pink to rust-colored anger to chili-red lust. Didn’t matter if it was an insult, compliment, or an unexpected sexual attraction that hit her like a bomb, the result was clear on her face.

  Top most embarrassing moment, please take a step down.

  His eyes bounced along her body. The red-velvet bra. The matching thong. The ruby piercing snuggled in her bellybutton. The tattoo along her right side—a woman’s long, elegant hand curved with vicious scarlet nails, clutching an enchanted apple, holding it out, as if implicitly offering it to the person now consuming her body.

  Consuming her body with eyes of thickest amber, eyes drunk on sun, sex, sand, and Southern Comfort.

  The heat from his gaze reached out and licked her. Every inch of her grew hotter. Her face. Her hands. Between her breasts. Lower.

  The man reached down blindly, groped and found his two-way.

  He lifted the two-way to his mouth but spoke to her before he spoke into it. “Darlin’, don’t be upset by this. I’m on your side. Trust me.”

  He clicked the radio on. In Spanish, he gave instructions for his men to go out and hunt Justice. He clicked off.

  Don’t be upset? Did the man realize that was her sister? Teeth clenched, she reached down and extracted her gun from the hidden compartment. She aimed at him.

  A muscle along his thumb twitched, but he kept his Glock 19 down, smiled.

  He smiled? Was he trying not to laugh? Oh, buddy, let’s see how quickly I can wipe that smile off your face.

  “No. No,” he said, clearly reading her intent from her furious face. “Don’t shoot. I’m working with Tony. I had to send those men so Walid wouldn’t suspect us.”

  Tony? “My brother never mentioned you. And you just sacrificed my sister so Walid, a sex-trafficking supervillain, won’t suspect you?”

  Her finger tensed around the trigger.

  He shook his head. Smile gone. His gun hand remained down. Smart. “I did that so Tony still has a chance. And your sister is good. Honest. Those guys can’t shoot. No fooling. One of them shot himself in the foot trying to take his gun out two months ago.”

  “Gracie?” Justice’s strained voice came through her headset.

  Gracie clicked her mic on with a flick of her jaw. “Go. I’ve got American Ninja Warrior.”

  He did smile at that. “I’m Agent Leif McAllister. FBI.”

  FBI? Nuts and bolts. The email. The email she’d sent via a secure site to the FBI. The one she’d sent when Tyler was sick and she was helpless to go to him and it all seemed Momma’s fault. The stupid email that proved her a traitor to the family and Momma’s secret society, the League of Warrior Women. She swallowed a wave of panic. “FBI? In Mexico?”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sort of off duty right now. No need for the agent part, actually. Just thought that would make you more comfortable. My friends call me Dusty.”

  “Dusty?”

  “Been told I could talk a stone to dust.” He reached out with his free hand. “I’m going to help you out of here. Okay?”

  “You touch me and I will shoot.”

  His hand dropped. Good. Nothing like getting the boundaries set from the get-go.

  Chapter 4

  Dusty was pretty sure Tony would have an issue or two with what he intended to do with his sister. Give him the ruby. Give him the nails. Give him the apple. Yep. He wanted to lick his way down the whole damn tattoo and across that too-pink skin.

  But first things first. Getting her not to shoot him. Which meant being honest with her.

  Well, no. Not honest.

  Telling her that the FBI had gotten an anonymous tip about Parish vigilante activities, and that he was investigating her family and using her brother Tony as means to an end, make this whole thing messy. Would cost him his job. And the person he wanted to bust most, Mukta Parish.

  He’d give her his cover.

  “Your brother recruited me to help take out the sex-slaver, Walid. I’ve been working here for months, replacing every decent shot with a lousy one, and learning this place and its quirks like the back of my hand.”

  She squinted, as if weighing whether or not to shoot him. “Give me your gun.”

  “That’s a no-go.” And a hell no. She opened her mouth. Probably to argue. Because after only two minutes of knowing her, Dusty also knew this was Gracie’s strong suit. “If my men or Walid see you with a gun on me, things are going to get real complicated.”

  Her brows drew together. “Give me your gun. I’ll give it back when I’m safely out of the car.”

  “Look”—he glanced around to make sure no one had started to pay attention—“if I wanted you dead, I’d have shot you by now. There’s no time. The longer we argue, the more suspicious this looks. You need me, so risk trusting me.”

  She tilted her head as if to ask, So why don’t you trust me and give me the gun?

  Damn. She was going to get them both killed.

  He swallowed a big helping of yes-ma’am that nearly choked him and placed his gun on the seat.

  Straightening, he stepped back from the car. The SUV full of men he’d sent after Justice had pulled to a stop high on the ridge, and the men had gotten out.

  At the other end of the compound, past the barn, main house, and entrance to the old mine shaft, another vehicle tore out the back gate. Road grit flew into the air as the car screamed away.

  Some of his men were already abandoning ship. Just how he liked it. He took out his two-way and yelled that he had it under control and for them to stop. They went faster.

  Perfect.

  His Glock in one of her hands, her small-framed Beretta Tomcat in the other, red-velvet bra, colorful tattoo, belly piercing…Gracie was as hot as bourbon whiskey. With a stone-serious expression, she motioned him to the rear of the car. He took two steps back. “We don’t have—”

  She turned to survey the area, revealing a thong splitting an ass as round and juicy as the apple tattooed across her abs.

  “Tiiii…” His voice went up like a hay bale doused with gasoline torched by a flamethrower. His blood turned to liquid lava, steamed his body, and ironed out the wrinkles in the front of his cargo pants.

  He should look away.

  She turned, caught him looking. He grinned. Like a fool.

  A bullet thunked into the steel of the car. He dropped a hair’s breadth slower than her.

  Crouched by the car, adrenaline slapping him upside the head for his stupidity, he raised his two-way and told his men not to shoot.

  He returned his attention to her, crouched beside him, and tried to get things under control. “You need to give me my gun. I can get them…”

  Grac
ie ignored him, raised her Tomcat, and shot over his head. Someone cried out. He leaned in. “Don’t shoot. Honestly, these guys…”

  She jumped to her feet and ran up the dirt road and through the now-unmanned gate. What the hell? He was tempted to let the idiot get herself killed.

  Aw, hell. Anxiety putting spurs to his legs, he sprinted after her. A woman with a gun in each hand. He must be the idiot.

  Lady had speed. But he had longer legs and apparently more fear. “Stop. You’re making this harder than it has to be. And you’re going the wrong way.”

  She pulled up behind the guard tower, sucking in air. “Which way is faster?”

  He stepped to the side, blocked their conversation from any cameras. The noise from the alarm pulsed against his eardrums. “Give me my gun. I’ll convince my men I’m taking you prisoner. We can walk through here without killing anyone or getting killed.”

  She squinted at him. “And my gun?”

  Seriously? “You’ll have to give me that to convince my men you’re my prisoner.”

  She shook her head. “If I keep my hands low like they’re cuffed in front of me, they won’t see that I’m holding a gun. It’s dark. And it’s a small gun.”

  He seriously could not believe her.

  She handed him his gun. “I need to get to the security station to turn off the electric fence for my sister.”

  Great, just what this situation needed, another Parish running around.

  Taking his gun, he nodded toward a building by the coal mine. “Roundish building, left of the mine—it’s a yurt. That’s security.”

  Lowering her hands, she did a fair job of keeping the Tomcat hidden. Not that it would fool anyone who looked closely enough, but dressed as she was—hot woman wearing combat boots and a thong—no one would be looking at her hands.

  “A yurt. Not very secure.”

  No kidding. Even less secure today than it had been a few months ago. Dusty used his gun to indicate which way she should go. “Make it look good.”

  She lowered her shoulders, lowered her head like she’d been defeated, and started walking. His two-way squawked again, more shit going on in the mine. Damn Sandesh. Couldn’t that guy just sit tight?

  “My Spanish isn’t great. Did they say the mine?”

  He lowered the sound. They had. But he wasn’t about to tell her that. She might start running again. He needed her to stay calm and in his immediate vicinity. “No.”

  She looked over her shoulder at him. Her eyebrows crashed together, forming a wrinkle above her nose. He felt it then. He felt it for what it was.

  The moment lengthened, drew out as clear as crystal. As clear as a blue sky on a bright, cloudless Easter morning. The decision made. The box checked. He saw it in her face. You’re lying. And I will never trust you.

  Chapter 5

  Inside the security center the alarm became deafening. Probably because of the four large speakers mounted on the center tent pole. Around the edges of the octagonal, wood-framed room a series of computers were set up. Other than that, the room had a few stools, a coffee machine, water cooler. That was it.

  Dusty had marched her in here as if they’d be encountering resistance, but the room was empty of people.

  She turned and looked at him. His eyes were open wide, so was his mouth. Apparently, his men were abandoning ship at warp speed. He motioned to the bank of computers. “There,” he shouted over the noise, pointing at the central keyboard. “Don’t know how to turn off the alarm. But I know that’s the main security computer.”

  As Dusty called out the password, Gracie crossed the room. She had to work quickly. Placing her gun nearby, she typed. Her fingers shook against the keyboard. Sweat slicked her palms, legs, back.

  The night had cooled considerably. When the adrenaline wore off, she was going to be one shaky, chattering mess.

  A series of commands later, password entered, a series of command later, and the electric fence turned off, along with that blasted alarm. Her muffled ears throbbed.

  Dusty’s two-way squawked with instructions she couldn’t hear. He whisper-cursed “Fuck,” answered whoever was on the other end, and clicked off. “Your friend Sandesh shot two of my men down in the mine. They’re sending reinforcements.”

  He tipped up his baseball hat, wiped at the sweat on his forehead. “We need to get down there, get him, and get out before the reinforcements arrive.”

  Descending into a dark mine wearing next to nothing, while men with guns would most certainly be following, wasn’t the best idea she’d ever heard. She wiped slick palms against slicker thighs then picked up her gun. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Shivering, Gracie kept her booted feet braced wide as they rode the dilapidated elevator down into the dark mine shaft. A wheel-and-pulley system, squeaking like a giant hamster wheel, fed the steel cable that slowly lowered the iron cage. The elevator was open on all sides, making the rough, sooty stone walls claustrophobically close. Gracie suppressed a coal-dust cough.

  The single light at the top of the elevator cage seemed to do less and less as they descended.

  Instinct screamed at her to get out of there. As they neared the bottom, Dusty pressed a button, and the cage creaked to a stop. He slid the gate open with a resounding clack that echoed up the shaft, hit the switch to lock the elevator in place, then took the lead. Gun raised and braced on the flashlight fisted in his other hand, he scanned the area.

  She followed, wiping sweat from her face with her free hand. Who was he worried about? He’d already said Sandesh had killed the men down here.

  Oh. Right. He was worried about Sandesh.

  When they passed two dead men, Dusty cursed and said a soft prayer before continuing on. She avoided looking at them. Her anxiety levels were already skyrocketing.

  Straight ahead was a stairway carved into the stone. With no lights up ahead, the steps seemed to disappear into darkness.

  She followed Dusty and the cone of light his flashlight created. He was ninja quiet. Impressive for such a big guy. Her boots swished against the gritty steps, a whisper of sound compared to her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

  At the top of the stairs, Dusty moved expertly into a hallway with his gun and flashlight down. She stepped out after him. He partially blocked her way, but she caught the outline of a body on the ground and someone curled up, using the corpse as cover.

  Sandesh.

  “Don’t shoot,” Gracie said, quickly moving in front of Dusty.

  Looking as bruised and battered as a man who’d been held captive by a sadistic sex-slaver would, Sandesh lifted a head crusty with blood. “Gracie?” He sounded as if someone had hijacked his vocal cords and replaced them with rocks. He blinked halfway swollen eyes. “You’re rescuing me in your underwear?”

  Wondering how he could even see her, worried that they had to take this beaten man through a hostile camp, and a foreboding dread that told her the chances of getting everyone out alive today were slim, she shrugged. “All the cool kids are doing it.”

  Chapter 6

  Two months later

  Snug in black leather, from her sleek jacket to her tight-on-the-ass pants—way too hot for summer—a matching black helmet and tinted visor, Gracie inched her low-riding Ducati Monster through Philadelphia’s historic Manayunk district.

  Cars and high-end stores lined the bustling block. Colorful awnings stretched over crowded outdoor seating. Rounding a corner, she got million-dollar-jackpot lucky, and waited as a car pulled out of a prime parking space.

  In her rearview mirror, she spied the familiar three-story brownstone where her ex, John, lived. Squeezed among a long row of houses, his home had a balcony with a few chairs and a tier of herb pots.

  Swinging off her bike, she strolled to the Italian ice cart at the street corner and lifted her visor. The man at the stand, short
er than even Gracie’s five-foot-one—five-foot-three in her riding boots—with skin the rich brown of Brazilian leather, rinsed the ice cream scoop in a water-filled Bazooka gum bucket. “Wha’d yawant?”

  “Watermelon.”

  He filled the cup, and she handed him a few dollars. She spooned the cool watermelon goodness into her mouth.

  Why did people need any other flavor? Honestly, she felt about watermelon-flavored anything the way most women felt about chocolate. A fact she was careful not to share with her dozens of adopted, gun-toting sisters. Who needed that argument?

  Leaning against a utility pole, she waited. It didn’t take long.

  The moment she saw him, her blood danced through her heart, her mouth frolicked into a smile, and the tension in her shoulders melted.

  Her son.

  Tyler carried his guitar onto the balcony. Curly dark hair framed his youthful, sharply angled face. Thanks to a recent haircut, she could see his green eyes, so like hers, bright against his sun-loving Mediterranean skin, so not like hers.

  He’d grown about two inches over the last few months. She’d noticed when she’d trailed him through the city last week. And though, at almost sixteen, he was thin, he would definitely fill out and have his father’s build.

  She listened as he serenaded the block. Unless paying careful attention, most people wouldn’t hear it over the street noise—people talking, music spilling from pub speakers.

  There was an ache in Tyler’s music. Much different from his father’s, which was always full of muddled promises.

  That wasn’t fair. What did she know of John now that he had Ellen? Nothing. She’d probably changed him. No dark secrets to tear them apart, no family violence to rend their love.

  And Tyler? Gracie knew him at two, not at three or ten or even sixteen. She’d let him go thirteen years ago, and now he called Ellen Mom.

  Giving him up had been the only way to keep him and John safe from the vigilante machine that had sucked away her soul. And maybe her ability to know the clear difference between right and wrong. None of that made her feel better.