Impossible Choice

by Sybil Bartel

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The sound of ringing woke me and I opened my eyes to pitch black. Buck’s arm left my side a second later.

  He rolled on his back and reached for his phone on the nightstand. “What?”

  “Company. Front door, thirty seconds. I’m three minutes out.” A heavy engine noise combined with the sound of rushing wind accompanied André’s voice.

  “Got it.” Buck hung up, switched the lamp on low and was on his feet in a flash, grabbing his clothes.

  “What’s happening?” I pushed back the covers. The bedroom and the night were so silent, I’d heard every word, but I was having trouble processing it.

  “Stay here.” He pulled his boots on and tucked a Glock I’d never seen him with into his back waistband.

  I started to panic. “Don’t go out there alone.”

  Heavy banging pounded on the front door.

  Buck glanced up from lacing his boot. “Stay,” he commanded then he flew out of the bedroom.

  “Shit!” I jumped up and winced from the soreness in my stomach. Favoring my side, I rushed into the closet and threw on clothes. I ran to the foyer, then stopped dead at the open front door.

  His back to me, Buck stood stock-still as two men flanked him, each with a gun pointing at his head. Shorty stood in front of Buck and behind Shorty was a black SUV with the front doors open.

  “Here’s how this is gonna go down, amigo.” Shorty sneered with contempt.

  Oh my God. No. No. “Blaze,” I whispered in disbelief.

  Three things happened at once.

  Shorty’s face stretched with a salacious grin, Buck’s hands went to his hips and Shorty’s two men raised their arms not trained at Buck and aimed guns at me. The synchronized move was so fast, I knew they’d done it before.

  “Perfect timing, chica,” Shorty smirked.

  My mouth had a mind of its own. “Fuck you.”

  Shorty’s face tightened with hatred. “Don’t tease me, puta, cuz I’ll take that mouth of yours and—”

  Buck stopped Shorty with a murderous glare. “You finish that sentence and you’re dead.”

  “Whatdaya gonna do to me, G.I. Joe? I’m holding your gun and you got metal pointed at you and your bitch’s head.”

  “One minute,” Buck warned.

  Shorty smiled. “You think you can threaten me?”

  “Fifty-five seconds. Get off my driveway.”

  For a split second, Shorty looked nervous. Then the vicious snarl was back. “You tell your little girlfriend to hand over the two million and I’ll think about letting you live. I did you a favor tonight, next time I won’t come knocking. Two million. Tomorrow by six or every cop from here to Key West is gonna know what you did.”

  “You have nothing on me. Thirty seconds.”

  “You think that little chula didn’t tell us everything? You think she didn’t squeal like a pig?” Shorty grabbed his dick and thrust his hips. “Oh, she fucking talked, my friend, she told us evvverything.”

  “I lied,” Buck said flatly.

  Shorty laughed. “So?”

  “You don’t have a minute.” Both of Buck’s arms shot out. With razor-sharp precision, he grabbed the hands holding the guns pointed at his head, twisted his grip and yanked down, hard. Both men fell toward him as his torso turned and he kicked out with vicious accuracy. The gun flew from Shorty’s grasp right before the heel of Buck’s boot connected with his chest. Three loud pops and wind whipped past my ears. The two gunmen were kneeling with their arms twisted up and out in Buck’s relentless grasp but he wasn’t finished.

  Faster than lightning, Buck brought his leg in, spun, then kicked out again and nailed one of the gunmen in the face. A sickening crack followed by an inhuman wail echoed through the night as Buck’s elbow connected with the nose of the other gunman. Blood spewed, Buck lurched for one of the fallen guns and both men dropped to all fours.

  Shorty staggered to his feet. A black motorcycle pulled up the driveway and screeched to a halt six inches in front of him. The driver threw the kickstand and dismounted, all while holding a gun pointed at Shorty’s head.

  “You’re late,” Buck snapped, kicking guns away from Shorty’s two henchmen as he kept his own trained on them.

  The driver pulled his helmet off as Shorty looked between him and Buck.

  “I’m early.” André set his helmet on the seat of the bike. “You have no patience.” Both of his hands went around the gun he was pointing at Shorty.

  One of the men on the ground moaned and fell to his side. Bright red dripped from his face and pooled on the driveway like a bad horror movie. He made a sputtering sound then wheezed.

  I stood frozen with shock as a squeak escaped my throat.

  Buck turned. His hardened stare swept the length of me, paused at my feet and came back up.

  The geyser inside me erupted. “Those were bullets. Real bullets. Wild shots! Whipping past my head from those asshole’s guns because you attacked them. You could’ve gotten me killed. You let them shoot at me. Shoot at me. You could’ve broken a window. There’s probably bullet holes in my house. You didn’t even see me, you just went all commando and crazy and boom.” I slapped my hands together dramatically. “Kicked them in the face! When they had guns. Two guns—no—four guns. A lot of guns! Everybody had guns. I could’ve been shot. Again!” I sucked in a breath and kept going.

  “And I don’t like being shot. In fact, I hate being shot. It hurts and it pisses me off and I don’t need another stupid fucking scar on my arm because this one?” I jammed a finger in my upper arm. “Is ugly!”

  The not-so-bloody gunman rolled to his back and made to get up.

  Buck moved quick, jamming his gun in the back of the guy’s head. “Two choices,” he barked. “Get in the SUV or bleed more.”

  One hand up, the asshole shuffled to his feet in a drunken-like stupor. Grabbing for the nasty bloody mess that was the other guy, he stuffed him into the SUV. When he reached back for Shorty, Shorty shoved him off.

  Sneering at Buck as if he wanted to murder him, Shorty took a step toward the driver’s door. “Big mistake,” he warned Buck. “Big fucking mistake, G.I. Joe. You’re mine now.” He pointed at him for effect then he got behind the wheel.

  Taillights glowed bright, then disappeared around a corner.

  Adrenaline leached out of my chest and sunk to my belly. I looked down. “There’s blood on my driveway.”

  “Better theirs than ours,” Buck stated.

  It oozed like it was alive as it seeped into the pavers. “I don’t think the HOA bylaws allow bloody driveways.” The neighbors would probably frown at that. Maybe even move. They already avoided me like I was a leper.

  Buck studied me. “I’ll hose it off.”

  Something close to exhaustion pushed down on my shoulders. “Then there’ll be blood in the grass. Red grass is bad. Leper bad.”

  Perfectly still, gun in his hand, Buck’s voice went calm, even. “I’ll turn the sprinklers on.”

  Sprinklers? “And wash the blood into the street? How long will that take? One, two hours?” I stared at the gutters, gutters that would fill up with pink water and spread down the street, tainting the whole neighborhood with blood.

  “Forty-five minutes.”

  Forty-five minutes? “Are you sure?”

  “Layna.”

  “Because there’s blood everywhere.”

  “Layna.”

  “I think that’s a fifty-minute bloody driveway. Maybe even sixty.”

  “Look at me.”

  I looked up. Buck studied me with clinical precision. Scientific, clinical precision. Scientists were smart. Maybe he did know it would only take forty-five minutes. “Do you have an answer for everything?”

  “Y
es.” He didn’t hesitate.

  “Does he have anything on you?”

  “No.”

  Air filled my lungs. My chest expanded. My head went dizzy. “That’s good.” My voice sounded strange. “There’s DNA all over the driveway.”

  “You okay?”

  I looked down at the blood then at my bare feet. “I’m painting my toenails tomorrow. I hate red.”

  “Pink’s good,” Buck said with an air of practicality.

  My head popped up. I frowned. “You like pink?”

  “I love pink.”

  I looked at André. He remained silent, his expression weary. “Did you get that on video?” I asked him.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Too bad.” I shook away the dizziness. “It would’ve been funny later.”

  André glanced at Buck. “Gunny?”

  Buck inclined his head toward André but his eyes remained on me. “All set.”

  André didn’t leave. “I closed the radius. One patrol, fifteen feet max, twenty-four seven. I know what you said but we need visibility.”

  “Agreed,” Buck said curtly.

  “Visibility on what?” I asked.

  “You,” André said matter-of-factly.

  My heart stopped, leapt, then started again. It felt like it was happening to someone else.

  Buck’s voice turned gentle. “One of André’s men will be with you around the clock,” he explained.

  “No.” No fucking way.

  “This isn’t open for discussion,” Buck warned.

  My hand shot up and my body moved back. “No way.” No how. “I’m not going back to that life. I’m not going to live like that, not again.” Not ever.

  Buck was on me before I could flinch. The backs of his fingers ran down my face, and my traitorous body stood there like his word was gospel while renewed adrenaline pumped through my veins so hard the urge to run was nauseating.

  “This isn’t the same thing,” he said quietly. “I’m keeping you safe. His men will be visible but not intrusive. They do personal security all the time. They’re professionals, baby.”

  His words said this was happening but his voice, his hand, his head bent toward mine, it all said this was a good thing, so good that I caved. “Fine.” Jesus.

  Buck turned to André then spoke in rapid-fire short commands, “Outside, on property, random patrols. If she leaves the house, she’s escorted.”

  “Copy that.” André tucked the guns he’d picked up off the driveway into the pockets of his leather jacket.

  “One more thing.” Buck glanced at the red stain on the driveway. “Ariel Walsh, nineteen, she strips at the Pandora Club.” Buck looked up at André. “She has a two-year-old son.”

  A silent exchange passed between the two men.

  “How deep?” André asked.

  “She should be relocated if possible.”

  Bile churned in my stomach.

  Shorty didn’t have anything on Buck. Ariel did.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I didn’t remember André leaving. I didn’t notice Buck had washed off the driveway. I didn’t even feel the soreness of surgery. All I felt was desperation. This whole thing was going to come crashing down because of one weak link and even I couldn’t blame her. I would protect a two-year-old little boy any way I could too.

  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized Ariel wasn’t the weak link. I was. Five months ago I was too selfish and too weak to walk away from a man who risked his life for his country. Now he was risking everything for me.

  I had to stop this.

  “I’ll get the money tomorrow,” I said. Somehow, someway, I would.

  Buck put down the cloth he was using to clean his gun. “For what reason?”

  The question took me so off guard, I stared at him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Slow, careful, Buck set his gun on the kitchen table. “How much money do you have, Layna?”

  His stillness, the lack of any intonation in his voice, I stuttered, “I...I’m not sure.”

  “Ballpark.”

  Two million in the account Westcott used to maintain the house and give me an allowance and eighteen million in the account he’d at first neglected to tell me I would inherit in a couple of months. “Twenty million.” Just saying it out loud made my skin crawl.

  “You’re going to give ten percent of your net worth to a criminal?”

  He made it sound dirty and wrong. I was saving his life. “Yes.”

  Buck pushed his chair violently back from the table. “Save your money,” he bit out before stalking into the bedroom.

  I was on my feet before I had time to think. “I’m doing this for you!” I shouted.

  Six feet four inches of pure muscled anger spun on me. With his heavy black boots an inch in front of my bare feet, Buck got in my face. “You know what you’re doing for me?” I leaned back, but he grabbed my chin. “Telling me exactly what you think of me.”

  “Yeah, and what’s that?” I tried to jerk away but he held firm.

  Cold eyes burned with anger. “You don’t trust me for shit.”

  “Bullshit.” But my stomach clenched at his words.

  “You don’t think I can handle a piece of shit like Michael Maldonado? You’re gonna throw your money at him, see what sticks? I’ve wiped Afghan shit from my boots that’s a hundred times smarter than that asshole.”

  Shock slapped me in the face. Shorty...Michael Maldonado. One of the two names I had never been told. The names Buck and Talon had kept from me in order to protect me. My fists clenched, my back went rigid and my voice came out in a strained whisper. “What was Miami’s name?”

  The anger, the fire in his eyes, the tightness in his grip, it instantly disappeared. The impenetrable mask of a trained marine slammed into place and he dropped his hand. “Go to bed.”

  “Who was he?” I wanted his name. I wanted the name of the man who killed my parents.

  “I’m going to shower.” Buck turned but I caught his arm. Corded muscles bunched under my hand before he shook me off and strode into the bathroom.

  “Tell me,” I demanded.

  He ignored me and turned on the water.

  “I asked you a question.” Goddamn it.

  Stripping off his bloodied shirt, he threw it in the trash. He undid his pants and they slid just below his bare hips as he used first one foot then the other to kick out of his boots, then his pants hit the floor.

  “Answer me!”

  Huge hands gripped my waist, my feet left the ground and hot water hit my back. I swung out. Both fists made solid contact with steel biceps and I shrieked. Pain radiated from my wrists to my forearms but I didn’t care. I pulled back and hit him again. Then again. And again. The water sluicing off our bodies, my fists lost purchase but my momentum was gaining. My palms opened on instinct and slapped against taut skin.

  “Stop,” Buck commanded but he didn’t move. Hands on my waist, his face unreadable, he didn’t even try to restrain me.

  Grief, thick and suffocating, lodged in my chest, ripped apart my heart and blindsided me with an intensity so raw, I couldn’t breathe. A cry, part wail, all rage, broke from my lungs and the wall around my heart that’d protected me for three years shattered.

  “No.” I slammed a fist against the tile wall.

  “Layna!” Buck grabbed my hand.

  Sharp pain only muted the agony in my heart for one second so I single-handedly pounded the solid chest in front of me with everything I had. “Goddamn it!” Over and over, fist against flesh, tears streaming, sobs choking, I stopped being. I wasn’t Layna, I wasn’t Jennifer. I was pain, orphaned, isolated, hunted, agonizing pain.

  Water blinding me, no air in my lungs, drowning in
anguish, my fist kept hitting until I couldn’t hit anymore. Then the searing pain of loss became a throbbing ache in my side for the new life I’d lost.

  “I lost everything,” I cried.

  Huge warm arms pulled me against a solid chest. A calloused hand cupped the back of my neck. “Let it out,” he whispered in my ear.

  I sobbed giant, ugly tears. “They’re gone, my baby’s gone. She’s dead and I’ll never hold her. They’re dead. Everyone’s dead.” This was killing me. “Please,” I begged. “Make it stop.”

  Buck scooped me up.

  I wanted the burning in my chest to stop. “I don’t want this,” I wailed.

  He set me on the counter. “Shh, give me two seconds. I gotta get these wet clothes off you.”

  My shirt whipped over my head. My pants dragged down my legs. I cried harder.

  Buck yanked a towel off the rack, wrapped me tight and picked me up. “I got you, baby, I got you.”

  “Everything hurts.”

  “I know.” He walked in the bedroom and gently set me down on the bed.

  “I don’t want to feel this pain.” My mother’s smile, my father’s gentle voice, the love they had for each other, it all played in a cruel loop in my mind, the anguish of their loss as fresh as if it were yesterday mixed with betrayal so deep it cut every memory I’d ever held on to. “Why is this happening?”

  “Bad day, you’re processing. It’s okay. You’re gonna be alright.”

  Faster and faster my heart beat. My lungs burned. I was losing air. “There’s no air.” The room was closing in. “No air in here.” I clawed at my chest.

  “Shh, shh. Breathe, take a breath for me.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t.” Gulping. No air. I had to get outside. Now. I shoved the hard chest blocking my escape.

  Large hands gripped the sides of my face. “Layna.”

  My head snapped up and my body went rigid. A furrowed brow and stern, pale eyes swam into focus.

  “Seventeen minutes,” he said, matter-of-fact. “The average panic attack lasts seventeen minutes. You’re gonna ride this out.”