by Vivi Paige
“Of course, they sent me, Mai-Koh,” Joe grinned. “Everyone else was scared shitless to come after you. You’ve developed quite the reputation in your brief return.”
“Let her go, Joe,” I put the knife away as a sign of good faith. “This is between me and you.”
“I’m afraid not, boy.” Joe’s wizened face wrinkled further with a sneer. “My business is very much with her. I’m going to take over babysitting Miss Shaw until this deal is done. I only returned because I wanted to tell you as much to your face. I hate the idea of you running ’round the woods keening like a baby because you lost her.”
“Come on, Joe.” I spread my arms. “You know me. Would I do something to endanger the firm?”
“Not unless you didn’t know any better,” Joe snorted. Scarlett yelped when he yanked on her tangled hair, driving the arrow point deeper into her skin but not quite piercing her flesh. “This is a pretty little white girl you’ve got here. I’m sure she’s got your mind all twisted up with bad medicine. Fortunately for you, the Shaman is here to dance away your demons.”
My eyes narrowed and I took a step forward. “You’re not leaving here with her, Joe.”
“Will, please, I’ll be fine,” Scarlett pleaded with me.
“Not now, Red,” I pushed from behind clenched teeth.
“I don’t want you fighting your own family because of me,” she pressed. Joe tilted his head back and laughed, feather tokens in his hair dancing with his mirth.
“Your woman has more sense than you do, Mai-Koh.” Joe jutted his chin toward the door. “I’ll give you one last chance to walk away.”
I turned my head to the side, a bit confused. “Wait—you want to hold her here?”
Joe shrugged. “Why not? It’s as good a place as any, and the only people who know where it is are you, me, and Iris.”
Joe had always called Nonna by her first name. There was probably some history there—how else would he know how to find this place?—but I didn’t have time to unravel it now.
“It is a good hideout,” I said at length. “How about we make a deal, Joe?”
His gaze narrowed, and he jerked Scarlett about and forced her to kneel painfully at his feet. “I don’t make deals, boy. You should have figured that out a long time ago.”
“I know, but you’ll like this one, I think,” I said quickly. “How about if you hang out here with us until the ransom comes through? That way you’re still doing your job, right?”
“Hmm.” Joe seemed to consider the offer but then shook his graying head. “No go, boy. Devlin insisted I handle this personally and alone. If I don’t, it might hurt my rep. You know how it is.”
Navajo Joe was incredibly loyal to the family as a whole, if not its individual members. I didn’t know why, but he was. His story about his rep had nothing to do with things. He just didn’t want to disappoint the family.
“All right.” I held up my hands. “I can see you’re not about to make any deals. But what about a bet?”
“Bet?” Joe’s brows rose. He might have been the Native American Superman, but Joe’s kryptonite was gambling. It was the only reason he hadn’t retired yet, when he was compensated better than many corporate CEOs, tax free I might add. “What’s your bet?”
“I bet that I can take you out, hand to hand, no weapons…” My voice trailed off as Joe was overcome with great peals of laughter. His eyes squeezed tightly shut, moisture forming at the corners as he gave in to his mirth.
“I’m sorry, boy. What were you saying?” Joe made a show out of cleaning out his ear. “I could have sworn that you just said you could take me out.”
“That’s exactly what I said.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “If I beat you, you take your leave and let me continue to perform the task I was assigned. If you win, you take the girl.”
Scarlett shot me a dark look, probably not fond of the idea of being a “prize” in a fist fight between two old frenemies. But she didn’t understand that we had very few options.
“Huh. You’ve got balls, Mai-Koh.” Joe dragged Scarlett to her feet and pulled her over to the cabin wall. With a powerful, short thrust of his arm, he drove the arrowhead two inches deep into the timbers, pinning Scarlett in place.
Then he stepped back to the center of the cabin and doffed the camo jacket he wore, revealing a black tank top beneath. His muscular arms and chest belied his age, and he moved as spryly as a twenty-year-old as he loosened up.
Shit. This was the part of the plan that might hit a snag—beating the old Navajo bastard in a fair fight. I wasn’t sure I could beat him in an unfair fight. But one look at the terrified red-haired woman made me realize I had no choice.
I stepped toward him, raising my arms in a classic boxer’s defense and turning my body slightly to the side. Joe didn’t lift his hands, keeping them down by his sides. I didn’t take the bait. I’d sparred with him enough times to know he liked to bait his opponents into taking the offense.
“Your jabbing arm is dipping beneath your shoulder,” Joe pointed out as we circled each other in the living room floor. “That’s going to cut down on your power.”
“Should you really be giving me advice?” I snapped, though I did adjust my stance.
“Sure,” Joe shrugged. “How else is this going to be any fun whatsoever?”
I stepped forward and launched an exploratory jab, trying to find my range. Joe still didn’t lift his hands into a guard. He simply bobbed and weaved out of the way of my offense. A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. I didn’t want to let him get inside of my head—at least half the game was mental—but his arrogant attitude grated on my last nerve.
“All those pumped-up beach muscles, and that’s the best you’ve got?” he taunted as I drove him back. I had him on the run, at least, bobbing and dodging under my onslaught. My anger got the best of me, and I swung for the fences rather than continue the measured, careful assault I had been launching.
Which meant I fell right into his carefully laid trap. Joe sidestepped an overhand right roundhouse punch and cracked me hard across the jaw with a counter punch. My vision grew dark at the edges, and I stumbled forward onto my knees.
I was barely able to duck underneath a well-aimed kick, his boots smacking the ends of my hair. It was that close. If he’d connected, I would have been out for hours, maybe days.
Curling my body, I pitched into a somersault and came up on my feet, a trick I’d learned in the service. Joe whistled as if impressed.
“Not bad, not bad at all,” Joe chuckled. “You’ll have to teach me that little bit of tumbling when you wake up.”
I was too dazed to engage in verbal scuffling. I was having enough trouble with the physical sparring. Except this was no practice match. It was a high-stakes gamble, a fight with Scarlett’s life on the line. While I had no proof that she wouldn’t be safe with Joe, I didn’t want to take the risk, either.
Joe moved forward, and I managed to land a pretty solid shot to his breadbasket. He flinched, hand clutching the impact site. That was the location of one of his old gunshot wounds.
“Fighting dirty, eh kid?” he snapped. Then his grimace turned into a bright smile. “That’s my boy! I feel like I can stop holding back with you now.”
“Oh shit,” I cursed as he raised his hands at high angles, a classic Muay Thai position. He drove me backward with stiff kicks to my inner thigh, which I couldn’t quite evade. The pain of being hit in that spot is excruciating. It’s also a potentially lethal blow if it ruptures the femoral artery.
I was almost back against the stove. Out of options, I did what I had to do.
I cheated.
Reaching back, I grabbed the old-school cast iron skillet by the handle and whipped it forward. Joe saw the blow coming and crossed his arms over his face, but I still smacked him hard enough to send him stumbling back.
I pressed my momentary advantage, surging forward and swinging the skillet again. But Joe’s hand snapped out and caugh
t the edge, stopping my attack in its tracks.
“Is it my turn now?” He flashed a sneering grimace.
He punched out with the skillet, whose handle I still held. So great was his strength that he hit me right in the forehead anyway, despite my efforts to stop the blow. He did so two more times before I collapsed onto the floor.
“You’re one dirty fighting son of a gun, Will,” Joe spit onto the floor as he rubbed the sore spot where I’d hit him with the pan. “I couldn’t be prouder. But it’s time for you to learn why they call me the slayer of white men.”
He raised the pan up over his head, and I wondered if maybe this really was the end.
Chapter Twenty-Five
My scream cut through the fire-warmed cabin air as Joe towered over Will, the frying pan wielded like a club in his meaty fist. I’d been struggling to disentangle my hair from the arrow thrust firmly into the cabin wall ever since they started brawling, but at that precise moment my efforts took on a new urgency.
The arrowhead had been buried between two timbers and then twisted sideways, so it wasn’t a matter of simply pulling it out. I had to twist it as well, which was nearly impossible with the short span of tresses between my scalp and the arrow.
Reaching back over my head, I grabbed the arrow shaft in a two-fisted grip and yanked hard, teeth gritted against the strain. My efforts were rewarded by a sharp crack of wood. Suddenly I realized that all I had to do was break that shaft and I’d be free.
My mouth flew open in a scream of rage and frustration and the wood shaft yielded at last, splintering in two. I was up to my feet instantly, grabbing for the closest weapon I could find. My fingers closed around the handle of a cold iron fire poker, a heavy one with a baseball-sized stylized knot right before the ashen hook.
With a grunt of exertion, I swung the poker with all my might at the back of Joe’s head. Because of our height difference, the baseball-sized knot hit him rather than the pointed end. The impact was tremendous, wrenching the tool out of my grasp. I groaned in alarm and stared at my suddenly numb limbs, which could barely make fists at that moment.
Joe stiffened when I hit him with the poker, but he didn’t go down. The towering Native American pivoted about, with considerably less grace than he’d displayed so far. His eyes were full of shock rather than anger, and I wasn’t sure he was completely conscious or aware of his surroundings.
But he was aware enough. He took a step forward, lifting the frying pan up over his head. Joe was going to kill me before he toppled over himself. I was certain of it. I took a reflexive step back and cried out at the top of my lungs. “Will!”
He stirred, rising to his hands and knees and shaking the cobwebs out of his head, but I knew he’d never make it in time to save me.
I threw my arms up over my head and shrank back against the very wall I’d been pinned to with the arrow. But the expected blow didn’t come. I opened my eyes, peeking from between my fingers, and I saw Joe swaying unsteadily on his feet. A line of blood trickled down his forehead and ran to the tip of his nose, looking like ghastly war paint.
The frying pan dipped toward the floor, his grip slowly loosening as his eyes fluttered closed.
Then those fierce eyes snapped open, and his face contorted in rage. I screamed as Joe took a step forward—
—and collapsed face-first onto the cabin floor. The skillet bounced heavily once off the floor and then rattled to stillness.
Only then, when the danger had passed, did I completely break down and sob. I drew my legs up against my chest and hugged myself, rocking slowly. Somehow, Joe preparing to murder me with a frying pan was absurdly more frightening than the men shooting at us on the open seas.
I suppose it was because the danger was more immediate. I couldn’t even see the bullets, but I could certainly see Joe’s massive frame and the murderous iron skillet he wielded.
Then Will was there, crouching on the floor before me. He petted my head and told me it was going to be all right. He gathered me up into his arms in a fierce hug, and I clung to him like he was a life preserver in a storm-tossed ocean.
“It’s all right, Scarlett,” he soothed, holding me close. “It’s all right.”
“I thought he was going to kill you,” I sobbed. “Kill me.”
“But he didn’t. Did he? Thanks to you, we’re both still alive.”
He calmed me and helped me sit in one of the kitchen chairs. Then he handed me a cup of tea he’d brewed while I was out gathering kindling, which I received with trembling hands.
While I sipped tea and regained my faculties, Will carefully checked on Navajo Joe. Once he was certain that the big man was no threat, or perhaps still alive, he folded up a bath towel and carefully lifted Joe’s head, resting it on the towel like a pillow. Then he rolled the unconscious Native American over onto his side.
“What are you doing?” My voice was plagued with a tremble and weaker than I’d have liked.
“Putting him in the recovery position,” Will murmured. “He’ll probably be all right, though I’m sure you gave him a concussion.”
Part of me wanted to say “good,” but then I remembered I was supposed to be better than people like my father.
“Do we need to call him an ambulance?”
“No,” Will shook his head. “Joe knew the risks when he came out here, and besides, I’ve seen him walk away from worse. He’s going to be okay. And anyway, his pride is going to be stung enough after this without adding the indignity of waking up in a hospital.”
Will placed a bottle of whiskey in Joe’s open, nerveless hand and then checked his pockets. He came up with a pocket knife, which he replaced, and a cell phone, which he did not. Will cycled through the various screens, his blue eyes intense as they stared at the screen.
At length he set it down on the table next to me with a grunt of frustration.
“Damn. I should have known that an old pro like Joe wouldn’t leave anything useful on his unsecured cell.” He sighed. “It’s all coded. I can decipher some of it, but Joe’s very good at being subtle.”
“Yes, it was very subtle when he tried to murder both of us with an iron skillet,” I mumbled bitterly.
Will frowned but didn’t admonish me. Instead he turned about to pour himself a cup of tea. I idly glanced at the cell phone, the screen of which had not gone dark yet. It was on a contacts list, the last thing Will had been scanning.
My eyes widened when I saw a contact listed as capital R, and a heart emoji. I picked up the cell phone and stared at the number, realizing I recognized it.
“What’s up?” Will asked as he turned back around, steaming cup of tea in his big hand.
“This contact?” I held it up. “I know exactly who it is.”
“Exactly?” He tilted his head to the side, skepticism in his features. “It’s a New York area code, and that’s all I can narrow it down to. I mean, there’s not even a name.”
“There doesn’t have to be,” I grinned, glad to be the knowledgeable one for a change. “R heart. Robert Hart, a lawyer employed by my father who never seems to make it into court, if you catch my drift.”
“A fixer?” Will’s eyes perked up, and he came over to lean his arm on the table and read over my shoulder. I enjoyed his presence so close to me. “Wait, this can’t be right. Are you sure it’s the same guy?”
“Yup.” I nodded firmly. “I’ve seen the number pop up on my dad’s phone for the last ten years. It’s definitely the same number.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s the same guy.”
I gasped and looked up at him like he was an idiot. “R. Hart?” I sputtered. “Come on, Will. It’s him. Do I have to call the number and prove it to you?”
“No,” Will’s glower faded as he shook his head. “I believe you. And we wouldn’t want to tip him off that Joe’s been compromised anyway. I just couldn’t accept what’s going on here at first.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, my face twisting into a concerned frown. Will see
med upset all of a sudden, and he was such a cool customer that it was quite unsettling and made me upset.
“Think about it, Scarlett,” he spoke softly, the color draining out of his face. “A cleaner used by my family just happens to have your father’s fixer on his contacts list? I can only think of two possible explanations, and I don’t like either.”
I turned toward him and rested my hand on top of his defined forearm. “Tell me, please, because I’m really scared.”
He put his hand on top of my own and squeezed before continuing. “Possibility number one: Joe is not as loyal as my family thinks and has been pulling strings for your father this entire time.”
“I can see where you’d find that unsettling.”
“Except, it makes no sense. No offense, but your father doesn’t have anything that would tempt Joe. He’s not motivated by money, never has been.”
Will chuckled darkly. “I think he likes the excuse to hurt people, and his loyalty to my family lets him excuse it under the guise of duty and obligation.”
“Okay,” I said carefully, “so you don’t seem to think possibility number one is a good fit. What about possibility number two?”
Will sucked in a deep breath and stroked his chin in thought. “Possibility number two: Devlin trusts Joe more than me.”
“So?” I asked when he didn’t elaborate. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Will’s eyes glittered as he spoke. I could tell he was thinking out loud as much as explaining. “Yes, it’s all clear,” he said eagerly. “Devlin didn’t allow me to make direct contact with the client who ordered your abduction because he still doesn’t trust me. But he did trust Joe.” I laughed. “Joe does a lot of that because he’s intimidating even over the phone. Leads to a lot less clients trying to screw us over.”
“But how can we be sure?” I asked, suddenly connecting the dots in my mind. “What if Hart is handling the ransom negotiation for my father, and that’s why Joe has his number? Maybe he was supposed to send my dad proof of life?”
