Dangerous Moves

by Karen Rock

  “We agreed, no wandering off on your own.”

  She took out the cell phone he’d given her. “I would have called if anything happened.”

  “If you were ambushed, you might not have had time.” He laced his fingers in hers and tugged gently. “We’ve got to find the drop-off location. It’s closing in on midnight.”

  Reese planted her heels and dug in. “I just need a minute to…” to what, genius? Come on, think.

  “To?” he prompted.

  She pulled out her lip gloss. “Get beautiful?” Ugh. Lame.

  “Babe. You’re already there. Let’s go.”

  “No—I—” She slid a hand up his chest, desperately seeking a way to distract him. Her heart was beating in a different rhythm, faster, a dangerous pace. “I want to do this first.” She rose on her tiptoes and brushed his mouth with hers.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” he said. His voice was so faint, it was barely audible.

  “I know,” she said, as she circled his mouth with gentle kisses. She wanted to kiss him forever. She blocked out all thoughts about what this was, what it might mean, what further mess she might be creating for herself.

  “We’ve got a case to solve,” Blake protested.

  “You’re right.” Her lips moved to his earlobe.

  “We’ve got to stop,” he groaned.

  “Uh-huh,” she said as she nibbled on his ear.

  He released an uneven breath and stepped back. “As tempting as this is, we’ll miss the steroid drop if we don’t hurry.”

  Reese shook her head.

  He eyed her closely as she fidgeted with her purse strap, dropped her gaze and licked her lips.

  “Are you hiding something?”

  “N-no.”

  His gaze met hers as she denied it, as if he subjected her to some mental lie-detector test. “What is it?”

  She blew out a long breath. “Fine. But it’s not what you think it is.” She stepped forward, revealing the picture.

  “Son of a gun.” Blake peered closely at the image. “Who’s that?”

  “The casino’s owner, Bill Wilson. He’s an acquaintance of my father’s.”

  “Looks like more than an acquaintance. And you just remembered this now?”

  She nodded. “My dad came up here when I was a kid. He liked to gamble.”

  “Any other connection to the casino?” She nearly flinched at his intense expression, so different than the teasing man who disarmed her. He was now Officer Knight, detective, and it reminded her of every reason she had to distrust cops, this one in particular.

  “My dad is not dealing steroids,” she insisted, her voice shaking with ire.

  Blake folded his arms over his chest. “He’s got Dixon selling.”

  “If he knew about Dixon, he would have fired him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s my father.

  “Your loyalty’s admirable, but it’s blinding you.” He shook his head slowly.

  “And your black-and-white, ‘suspect everyone’ view is giving you tunnel vision. This picture’s probably just a coincidence,” she insisted, trying to convince herself as much as Blake. She owed her father the benefit of the doubt until she talked to her uncle and discovered if any concrete evidence existed.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.” Blake studied his shuffling feet. “And did you just kiss me to keep me from seeing the picture?”

  There. There was the vulnerability that somehow made Blake ten times hotter than when he armored himself and shut off.

  “Partly. But I also wanted to.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Good. Can you run in those things?” He pointed at her wedge heels.

  “Why?”

  “Because pick-up was five minutes ago.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Blake eased open a rear door and peered through its crack at an eighteen-wheeler idling in the docking area. Nothing moved in or around its cab. Had he gotten so distracted kissing Reese, assessing her father’s picture and second-guessing Reese’s motives, that he’d missed the drop-off?

  An owl’s reedy screech broke the tense silence and drew his eye upward. The moon, cradled in a smoking cup of cloud, rode high in a dark sky. The staggering August heat blasted his face and gummed his lungs. He pulled out his handgun.

  “See anything?” Reese whispered behind him.

  He shook his head. “There’s a dumpster just past the stairs,” he murmured in a hushed voice. “Wait here. I’m getting behind it.”

  “I’m coming with you,” she insisted. “We made a deal, remember? You promised not to leave me out.”

  “And I haven’t. But you’re not going any farther. That’s an order.” He ducked outside and slunk through the shadows, gun in hand, his pulse throbbing at the base of his neck, senses on high alert. Moonlight silvered the parking lot as he crept toward the dumpster. He crouched behind it a moment later and peered back at the truck.

  A hand fell on his shoulder, and he whirled, gun raised. Reese’s wide eyes sucked the air right out of him. He yanked down his Glock. “I told you to stay.”

  “I’m your partner. You need me.”

  A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw. This crucial moment required his complete focus, hard to do with his mind divided, much of his concentration now on protecting Reese.

  “I need you to stay safe.”

  “I—” she began, then stopped when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and pressed a finger to her mouth.

  Adrenaline revved his pulse into overdrive. He peered around the corner of the dumpster. A couple of men unlatched the back of the rig’s trailer and lifted the door on its rattling pulley. His eyes strained to make out what lurked inside. One of them pulled down a metal ramp then climbed inside the truck, a glowing cigarette clamped between his teeth. The other jabbed a finger over his cell phone’s screen, held it to his ear then began speaking. His garbled words were hushed and indecipherable.

  “What’s going on?” Reese breathed in Blake’s ear. “Is someone unloading the truck?”

  “Yes.” He strained to make out the plate number in the gloom.

  “Steroids?” She was so near he could feel the warmth of her body against his back.

  “Can’t tell yet.”

  “We need to get closer.”

  She was right. But how? The guy talking on his cell phone now faced the dumpster, the heel of his steel-toed work boot propped on the ramp.

  “We need a diversion,” he muttered, his brain in high gear. A trickle of sweat wound down his cheek and dropped onto his shirt collar.

  Think.

  Suddenly a squad car siren whooped in his ear. Blake’s sweat-slick hands nearly dropped his gun. What the fuck? Had someone tipped off the local police?

  The guy in the truck sprinted down the ramp, turned, heaved it back inside, slammed down the rig’s rear door and tossed his cigarette. His partner spoke rapidly into his cell as he raced after his buddy into the casino.

  Blake peered around for a police cruiser. Were they responding to an unrelated incident? Theft? A fight? A drunken and disorderly patron? He sure as hell hoped so. If they were here to bust the person at the casino who supplied the steroids, the rest of the ring would go underground along with its leader, leaving him promotion-less and Reese in even more danger.

  Shit.

  The siren abruptly shut off. Reese passed over the cell phone he’d given her. “Nice diversion, huh?”

  He blinked down at the sound app, then up at her cheeky grin, not sure if he wanted to kiss or shake her.

  Hissing out a sigh between his teeth, Blake shook his head. “What are the chances of you staying put while I check out the truck?”

  “Little to none.”

  His heart clenched at the fierce determination
lighting her eyes. Gutsy, headstrong Reese. It was all he could do not to crush her to him and kiss her senseless. “You don’t scare easy.”

  One eyebrow rose. “And I don’t go away.”

  “It’s one of your more irritating habits,” he drawled.

  “Must be losing my touch. Thought I was way better at getting to you than that.”

  “Trust me,” he murmured, his voice emerging rough and gravelly. “You are.”

  Blake cupped her face and dropped his gaze to her lips. Reese was beautiful, but her appearance was the least interesting thing about her. She was the whole package—looks, brains, personality, humor—and she was getting under his skin in the worst way. She’d burrow straight to his heart if he wasn’t careful. “Come on. Let’s hurry.”

  They dashed to the truck, and Blake eased up the door the men had left unlatched in their hasty exit. “See what’s inside. I’ll whistle if anyone appears.”

  “Got it!” She ducked beneath the door’s bottom and disappeared.

  “Reese!” he hissed. Her footsteps halted, and her eyes appeared beneath the truck door’s opening. “Hurry.”

  “Trying to,” she grumbled, sounding so aggrieved, so irritated, without a bit of fear, he almost laughed.

  Almost.

  This danger-fraught moment could erupt into lethal violence in an instant. Reese was a civilian. An amateur. She thought fast on her feet, sure. Even came up with solutions a seasoned detective like him didn’t think of, but she’d be an easy target if shit went down, especially when it involved a steroids ring already intent on harming her.

  “What do you see?” he called, low, without taking his eyes off the casino’s backstage door.

  “Boxes with some kind of lettering. Chinese, I think.”

  “Can you open one?”

  She huffed and strained, then, “No.” A grating scrape echoed inside the truck. “I’ll bring it to you.”

  A moment later, the edge of a cardboard box appeared in the opening. Reese slithered back outside just as a familiar white Escalade swerved into the back lot.

  “Run!” He grabbed her hand then yanked to a halt when the casino door began to open.

  Damn. All escape routes cut off.

  He pulled Reese down and crawled with her under the truck. “Don’t even breath,” he whispered in her ear as they flattened themselves against the warm pavement.

  Car doors slammed and pair of snakeskin boots and Nike sneakers appeared on the left side of the rig.

  “You’re late,” someone with a smoker’s rasp growled—one of the off-loaders from earlier. “You see any cops?”

  “Why?” The owner of the Nike sneakers pivoted three hundred and sixty degrees. “Were they here?”

  “Heard a siren.” The declaration ended in a phlegmatic cough.

  “Fuck. Where’d they go?” asked the other off-loader. Steel-toed boots stomped back and forth.

  Blake’s heart thrashed in his chest.

  Don’t look under the truck.

  “Dunno. Maybe it was for something else. Maybe not, so let’s make this quick. You got the money?” asked the smoker.

  “It’s all there.”

  The sound of a zipper sawed through the tense quiet. Then a man grunted—the smoker, by the rough sound of it. “Looks good. Take your shit and get out of here before the cops come back.”

  “Not worried about them,” yawned a fourth voice. It sounded vaguely familiar. A southern accent unlike the local Texas twang. “And Cherie said you’d help us load since we’re already behind schedule.”

  “Fuck you.” Steel-toed boots stormed closer to Nike sneakers. “I’ve got better things to do than—”

  The unmistakable click of a bullet being chambered cut off the tirade. “Don’t make me regret handing over that cash,” drawled the southerner.

  “Cherie said we could trust you,” wheezed the smoker.

  “You can trust me not to put a hole in your shirt if you get moving.”

  The clatter of the truck door rising followed a slew of swear words. “Hey. How’d this box get here?” demanded the voice Blake now associated with work-boot guy.

  His right eye ticked, and his pulse pounded with frightening speed just below his temple. Reese’s hand slid into his and squeezed hard.

  “You didn’t do that?” rasped the smoker.

  “N-no,” denied Work Boots.

  “Did you see anyone else back here?” demanded the southerner.

  “No, but…”

  “Then stop your yapping before someone does show up,” snapped the southerner. “Load us up.”

  “Whatever,” grumbled Work Boots.

  Time was an elastic thing, Blake thought as he stared at the boots and sneakers passing back and forth to the SUV. A moment could last an hour when your nerves stretched to the breaking point. Warm gravel pressed into his cheek. Diesel fumes filled his nose. Every muscle in his body tightened as if strung on a rack. Fight or flight. He’d prefer either to this torturous waiting game of potential discovery. He’d been in tough situations like this before, but it felt different now, with Reese there and in danger, too.

  She lay beside him, still and quiet as a stone. Her rapid breaths stirred the hair on the back of his neck. Was she worried? Scared? He wished he could turn around and hold her, reassure her, promise her he’d never let anything happen to her, because somewhere along the way, despite every attempt to keep his distance, her life had become incredibly precious to him.

  Something thudded down by their feet.

  “Careful with the product, asshole,” sniped the southerner.

  Blake lifted his head and glimpsed an upended box on the ground. The drop had cracked open the cardboard and moonlight sparkled on shattered glass and a white substance. Something rolled by his feet. His heartrate sped.

  He hooked it with his toe then inched it up to his thigh, slowly, careful not to alert the men cleaning up the mess inches away.

  Come on. Come on.

  Finally, he grabbed the object and brought it to eye level, studying the lettering.

  Bingo.

  Steroid powder. His first piece of concrete evidence. Now he just needed to ID the SUV driver. As for the casino, since it was out of his jurisdiction, all he could do was alert the DEA and the local precinct to his sting and Aces Up’s role in it. They’d coordinate a takedown once he gave the heads up.

  “Nice doing business with you, fellas,” the southerner said a few minutes later.

  “Fuck off,” muttered the smoker. A loud bang signaled they’d loaded the ramp back on the truck, the exchange nearly complete. The truck door slammed shut, and the latch clicked. Two men stomped off, their boots pointed in the casino’s direction, muttering profanities.

  Blake’s pulse jackhammered in his veins. He had to identify the departing SUV’s occupants, fast. Wriggling to the end of the truck, he spotted a familiar man hop in the passenger seat before the vehicle zoomed away.

  “T-That was—” Reese sputtered, as they scrambled out from under the truck once the coast was clear.

  “Coach Lewis,” he finished for her. Holy shit. The TMU football program was in deeper than Blake had suspected…all the way to the top.

  Blake’s body temperature soared from simmer to boil. For a heartbeat, he considered hopping on Nash’s Harley, chasing down the SUV, and smashing that fucker’s head into his vehicle the way he’d attacked Reese.

  Blake’s hands clenched at his sides. His whole body hummed with unleashed anger.

  He couldn’t be a hundred percent certain Coach Lewis was one of the kidnappers. Not yet. But once he’d completed the investigation, had lined up all the facts, fitted the clues together to create the picture already forming in his mind…

  Coach Lewis would rue the day he’d ever laid a hand on Reese Landon.

 
And what had he meant when he said he wasn’t worried about the cops? Was he referring to the ones who bought steroids at Bulk Gym, or something deeper? He drove an SUV stolen from a police impound lot. How’d he get it?

  Reese tapped his shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts. “We’d better head back. The show’s ending soon.”

  He followed her inside, admiring Reese’s levelheaded calm, when unspent adrenaline still jittered through him.

  Dixon, Cherie, Bill Wilson, Coach Lewis…all had ties to the steroids ring…and to Pete Landon.

  An undeniable fact. He just had to stitch the pieces together. Then he’d have his man….

  And lose the woman he was beginning to think of as his own.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Hey, Dad.” Reese cradled one of her father’s clammy hands the following morning. It looked alien to her, with its brown spots and thin, papery skin. Weak when he’d always been so strong. “Sorry I’m late today.”

  She paused a moment and stared into his slack face, her chest tight. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, and his slipping hospital gown revealed a pale shoulder. She snapped the top fastener, slid the material back into place, and tucked the blue woven blanket higher around his chest.

  Her fingers lingered there, remembering how, as a girl, he used to let her cling, upside down, to his belly as he crawled around the living room like the gorillas she’d adored, her mother cautioning them not to break any more collectibles. He’d called himself Gorilla Dad and used to twist his face into such crazy contortions she’d nearly peed her pants for laughing so hard.

  A wistful smile curved her lips, and her eyes stung. Life would have been so different if her mother had survived her battle with breast cancer. Before then, they’d been a tight trio. The Three Musketeers, her dad had dubbed them. But like a three-legged stool that loses a limb, once they’d buried Mom, their family toppled.

  “Do you remember when we used to put pots over our heads and duel with the broom and mop? You were Sir Dance-A-Lot and I was Lady Pain-In-The-Rear. And Mom. She’d sit on the couch and cheer.” Reese paused, then said, “We never played that game again after she passed.”