She could almost hear him thinking it. Would she jump?
“I’ll do it,” she threatened. “I… I swear.”
Tommy hesitated. Then he said, “You leap, I’ll leap right after you,” and she felt her heart lodge in her throat.
He… he meant it. She knew he did. If she chose death to escape him, the crazy bastard would be right behind her.
A choked sob broke free, causing her to bow forward at the sudden realization.
I’ll never be rid of him.
Sensing her despair, Tommy moved again. Her head jerked up in time to see the moonlight above wink off his silver tie clip. The quick glance was the only warning she had before he closed the gap between them by half.
Dropping the heft of the awful wedding gown, Grace threw her hands out in warning as she pulled herself up to her full height. Her chest heaved beneath the bodice; a combination of fear and the tight fit had her gasping for breath.
“I told you to stay back.”
“I don’t want it to come to this. Tell me what you want. Anything. You’ll have it, and we can forget this silly idea of jumping anywhere. What do you say?”
That was just like Tommy. No matter what, he thought his money and his power and his connections meant that he could buy her. As if some bauble or a trinket would make this okay.
There was only one thing in this world she wanted from him.
“Call Boone off.”
“Grace—”
She leaned back.
“Fine. Fine. If I spare him, you’ll stop this?”
“You leave him alone. You call off Boone, you make sure that Rick’s okay. You do that, Tommy, and I’ll go with you.”
“Only if you forget about him, too. You’re mine. Not his. But I’ll do anything to have you, and if this is what you’re asking—”
“It is.”
“Then consider it done, my love.”
She fought the urge to gag when he called her that. This was too important. She could save Rick. There would be time to jump, time to run later on. For now, her only focus was on saving the man she thought she might love.
“Do it now,” she said.
Tommy nodded, pulling the radio off of his belt. It was smaller than the ones Maria and Rick had, more compact, but it seemed to work the same way. He flicked a knob on the side. A red light appeared in the darkness, the indicator that the radio was on. Just as he was lifting it up to his mouth, a soft pop split the still air.
It was followed by two more in quick succession.
Pop. Pop.
“No.” The word escaped in a whimper. “Rick, no.”
Her legs buckled beneath her. She toppled forward, her sob muffled by the hands that flew to her face.
Tommy’s radio landed with a crack on the cobblestone road. He flung it to the side as he rushed forward, gathering Grace up in his arms and pulling her away from the edge
“Don’t mourn him, Grace,” he snapped, shaking her limp body like a rag doll as she cried. “Don’t you dare.”
“You monster! What did he ever do to you?”
“He tried to take my bride from me. Don’t you think that’s enough?”
Through her tears, she managed to get out, “I’m not your bride.”
Tommy ran his arms down the lace bodice, the ruffles that flowed around him as he squeezed her close. “Not yet. But you will be before morning.”
He sounded so certain, so sure, that Grace felt the shock knock her back against him. The gunshots seemed to echo all around them.
The invitation. The dress.
Tommy was serious about this wedding.
Dead serious.
He had his arm wrapped around her chest, his hold so tight that it was like a steel band trapping her against his side. She didn’t bother fighting him as he dragged her further away from the gulley. What was the use? He won. He always won.
And she’d lost. She’d lost so damn much.
Rick. God, no. She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it.
The sob burst out of her and she tried to hold it back, not because Tommy told her to, but because she didn’t want him to hear it. In the face of his perceived victory, he’d only enjoy her pain.
Tommy started to lead her toward the running car, stopping when a loud chiming sound echoed around them. It was so shrill, it even got through the angry pulse thudding in her ears, the endless refrain of he’s dead that had her head spinning.
The radio.
Someone was buzzing Tommy’s radio.
He heard it, too. Like he did earlier, Tommy switched his hold, swinging Grace up in a bridal carry. The passenger side door was left open and he plopped her in the empty seat with a scowl when he saw that she was still crying. With a rough swipe, he tried to dry her tears with the edge of his sleeve.
The radio continued to chime.
He bent low, gripping the doorframe. “Stay here,” he told her. “And stop that. I won’t have you wasting any grief on Hart.”
Her voice thick from tears, Grace said, “You should’ve let me jump.”
Tommy’s eyes flashed angrily and he reached for her again, yanking her close until only a few inches separated them. He started to say something, then stopped as the shrill ring seemed to grow louder.
Tommy stalked over to the radio, swooping it up. He glanced over at the car, assuring himself that Grace stayed where he put her. When he had, Tommy lifted the radio up to his mouth, engaging the receiver button. “You finished him, Boone?”
Grace lifted her head. She held her breath, the smallest bit of hope thudding in her chest. So she heard something that sounded terrifyingly like gunshots from not too far away. And maybe she accepted deep down that there was no way Tommy would let Rick go after discovering her in his bed, but he was desperate enough to keep her. Sparing Rick was her only condition.
Except Tommy hadn’t had the chance to radio his goon before the shots rang out.
Rick… Rick might’ve made it. He was tough. Strong. She knew from experience how well he could fight. He might’ve—
“Yeah,” came the rough reply.
—might’ve been killed by Tommy’s bodyguard.
And it was all her fault.
23
The instant he parked his truck in the drive and killed the engine, Rick knew something was wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on what. It was a gut instinct.
Considering how often his gut saved his skin before, he knew better than to ignore it.
The people in Hamlet might think he was paranoid. Apart from the Walsh kid going bad, and a couple of outsiders who paid the price, there was hardly ever any crime in town. No one locked their doors at night; there was never a passing thought to what dangers could be lurking outside in the dark. Even after the abduction of Liam Johnson last Christmas by a drunk in a Santa suit, the locals assumed they were still safe.
Rick learned long ago that safety was an illusion. In these past few weeks, he realized it was a dream.
Gripping his steering wheel, he thought of Grace and how adamant she was that she double- and triple-check all entryways and windows before she went to bed. He thought of her nightmares, of her whimpers when that faceless man followed her into her restless sleep. And he thought about the worries she shared with him, the lengths she’d seen her stalker go to terrorize her.
Rick promised that she would be safe in Hamlet with him. He might not be able to do anything more than pull her close and hold her while she dreamed, but here? Now? He would do anything he could to protect her.
First? Clear the perimeter of the house, then check to make sure she was safe and sound inside.
Climbing out of his truck, he peered into the gloom surrounding him. The nearest streetlamp was more than twenty feet away, leaving him cloaked in the shadows. The bad news? Anyone scoping out his place could be hidden, too. And he knew. He knew. Someone was fucking there. Even if he couldn’t see them, he knew it.
And it was an enemy.
He squinted, but couldn’t make out anything in the darkness. The night was still, so eerily and unnaturally silent, he could hear the rush of air as he breathed roughly through his nose. His boots crunched the brittle grass under his feet as he made a beeline for the back of his house. Gentling his steps, he hunched his body as he turned the corner.
Rick felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight. With each careful stride forward, he couldn’t hear anything coming from in front of him or behind. It didn’t mean there was no one there. He learned long ago how to control his body, keeping out of sight and moving quietly so that he could get in and out without being noticed. Whoever was watching him must have had similar training.
He couldn’t explain it, didn’t know why he was so certain, but Rick was willing to lay money down that someone was watching him. And he needed to stop them.
Keeping his ears cocked in case they made a mistake, he pulled his keys from his belt with his left hand. His right strayed to the butt of his pistol. Carrying in Hamlet never used to be protocol for the HSD. Once Sly took over as sheriff and he hired Rick to be one of his deputies, that custom changed—and it changed swiftly. After Caitlin’s fate, they all decided it was better to be safe than sorry. Carrying their weapons became the norm.
One small problem, though. Just the sight of the gun was normally enough to keep disorderly drunks in line. With his military background, Rick felt more comfortable wearing an empty gun. No bullets meant less chance of an accident. The odds of someone who wasn’t in law enforcement drawing on him seemed so slim before this. Despite Grace’s warnings about Mathers and his bodyguard, Rick figured, if he couldn’t rely on his training to take down a threat without using a weapon, he deserved to go down in the line.
Training also said that he should radio for back up if he felt like something was wrong. He grabbed at his belt again, his hand closing on nothing. That’s right. He buzzed Grace earlier, asking if she wanted him to stop at the coffeehouse and bring something home for dinner. She’d had a headache and was going to lie down. Not wanting to disturb her, he picked up a container of Gus’s special of the day—lemon chicken and steamed broccoli—and let some of the locals draw him into more than an hour long conversation.
Adrianna wanted to check in on Grace. Isabella Abreu asked when she would be starting up the dancing lessons again since Serafina missed them. Phil Granger stopped by during the supper rush, assuring Rick that he’d been watching the entrance for weeks during his downtime and there was no sign of that Pope fella or any other outsiders. His old buddy Dave even cornered him outside Gus’s kitchen to point out that his hair looked like it needed a trim.
It felt… it felt nice to actually feel like he belonged in Hamlet again. Not the oddity, not the ex-military man who hadn’t been able to hack it on the outside. Rick was just another local, with his neighbors and his friends butting in and being nosy and already throwing odds on the betting pool for when he’d make an honest woman of Grace.
His fist tightened.
Grace—
Rick’s concern for her overrode all of his training. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being stalked, but the truck was on the other side of his house. He needed to find her, make sure she was fine. Grabbing his communicator, buzzing Sly… it could wait.
It had to.
Okay. Grace’s car was still out front; he had parked right behind it. So either she was in the house with some kind of hidden threat lurking outside, or she was gone and she hadn’t needed to take her own car with her to go.
He didn’t know which was worse.
So focused on getting inside, on getting to Grace, Rick jogged toward the front of the house. He slapped his hand on his cuffs, muffling the sound. His boots landed softly on the frozen ground. He forgot all about the silent menace until he turned the corner and, suddenly, he wasn’t alone anymore.
Swallowing his curse, he straightened, immediately taking the measure of the bastard who seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Guy was big. As big as Rick, even if the deceptive cut of his fancy suit made him come across as a mammoth. The spotlight haloed the other man, casting his face in shadow. Rick didn’t need to see his face. From the way he held himself, tall and proud, his head straight and his hands relaxed at his side, Rick knew exactly what kind of danger he was facing.
And that’s when the man spoke. His words were gruff, short, and to the point:
“Nathaniel Boone. Sergeant. 050-63-1205.”
Name, rank, and service number. All the things you gave to an enemy.
Okay, then. At least, now, he was aware of where they stood.
“Richard Hart. Staff Sergeant.” One rank higher. He’d take it. “Mathers’ man, are you?”
A small dip of his head was the only confirmation Rick needed. He had recognized the name, knew from Grace’s admissions exactly who this man was, but he needed to hear it. He needed to be positive before he reacted.
He’d done too much damage while on duty. Things he did that he couldn’t forget. For Grace, he’d do it all over again. If it saved her, no matter what it cost him, he’d pay the price.
And so would Nathaniel Boone.
“You carrying, Hart?” Boone asked.
His hands fisted again. For the first time since he became deputized, Rick bitterly regretted keeping his six chambers empty. Never taking his eyes off of his opponent’s belt and the gun that would be tucked in a side holster, he shook his head. He thought about bluffing before deciding against it.
“Got a pistol,” he admitted, “but it’s not loaded.”
“Toss it.”
Rick did. It wouldn’t help him anyway.
As soon as his Glock 22 hit the dirt, Boone did something that surprised Rick. He withdrew his gun from his holster, engaged the safety, and threw it after Rick’s. It skittered across the gravel, landing out of reach of both men.
Boone moved into the reach of the lamppost. With a spark of excitement in his eyes and a small smile on his face, Boone gestured at himself, inviting Rick to charge.
Hand to hand combat. Fighting in close quarters. Let the best man win.
Boone was waiting for him. He braced his body, expecting Rick to come out swinging. And he did. He was already winding up, rearing back to strike as soon as he was close enough. His fist hit Boone’s face with a meaty thud. Boone’s head snapped back, his lip curled, and he got Rick right in the gut.
Rick went for Boone’s eyes. Anything to disable him. Boone dodged it, almost leveling Rick with a kick to the groin. He avoided it, plus the two punches thrown in succession behind it, but got tossed back when Boone wrenched Rick’s shoulder and yanked.
Rick got free, the burn racing up his arm, tweaking his old neck injury. He shook it off, diving at Boone shoulder first.
Knocking the wind out of the big man, Rick thought he found an advantage. It lasted seconds before Boone recovered his breath, then got him with a leg sweep. Rick hit the ground hard, rolling away just in time to miss being kicked in the side.
He popped up, looking for some opportunity, some weakness of Boone’s he could exploit.
Nothing.
Damn it.
They were just too evenly matched. Both men were military trained, aiming for the same spots, knowing where to hit and just how hard to strike to knock an opponent back, try to get him down.
He launched himself at Boone, hammering him with a volley of open-handed slaps, trying to tire Boone out, maybe encourage him to make a mistake. He put the other Marine on the defensive, forcing Boone to use more energy to knock his arms back.
But he got too close and Boone got him in the rib. Rick shielded his weaker side, giving Boone the edge. With a vicious snarl, the bodyguard went for a kill shot.
Rick just managed to block it. Avoiding the death strike to the throat, Rick gave a short jab straight at Boone’s solar plexus, grunting as Boone took the hit.
Boone immediately retaliated with a powerful punch. He clocked Rick dead in th
e face.
He heard the crack, felt the searing pain of a broken nose, and twisted away. Tears blinded him. He slapped at them, then gave his throbbing nose a tweak. Once he reset it, the ache dulled and he pushed past it.
Beneath the nearest spotlight, Boone’s dark eyes gleamed. He was barely out of breath. Half his face was battered, splattered with blood—some of it was his, some Rick’s—and his lip was split. When he grinned, it was a gruesome grimace.
“That all you have, Hart?”
The big bastard was proud. Rick was infinitely more motivated.
When he was on active duty in the Marines, he lived by their core values: honor, courage, and commitment. He liked to think that he still did, even now that he was back home instead of with his unit. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Swapping his cammies for a deputy’s uniform didn’t change that.
But there was another mantra that he was suddenly reminded of as he landed a solid right that had Boone’s head jerking back.
Improvise.
Adapt.
Overcome.
This wasn’t just about him. He wasn’t fighting to save his own life, though the penalty of losing this battle was promised in each blow he either took or dodged. Boone would destroy him like any other enemy if he gave the man the opportunity. Which he wouldn’t. For the first time in a long time, Rick finally had something to fight for. Something to live for.
He thought of Grace again. The memory of her smile, the feel of her long hair sliding along his bare chest, the taste of her kiss. If he didn’t shut Boone down now, Grace would be next.
Without even really thinking about, he knew she was already gone. Mathers, too. Why else would he leave his bodyguard behind to confront Rick? Grace’s car was there—but there was no sign of the blasted Jaguar that was the rich man’s calling card.
This cockfight was nothing but a distraction, a way to allow Mathers to make off with his Grace. Boone could’ve just taken him out, shooting him while he was checking the perimeter. There was a purpose to this fight: to kill time while Mathers escaped. Every second he wasted with Boone was another second that Mathers was running away with his woman. He needed to end this, and he needed to end this as fast as he could before Boone eventually turned lethal.
I'll Never Stop (Hamlet Book 4) Page 25
