by Lori Foster
She accepted that. “Arizona said as much.” She drew a breath. “You’re in love with her?”
Oh, God. He drew a breath. “Yes.”
“She doesn’t know that.”
“No.” He’d been such a stupid fool. But given her note, he had a little time to fix things.
“You should probably tell her.” And then in a censuring tone, “Women need to know these things.”
And Arizona needed to know it more than most. “I’ve been an ass.” He needed to call Jackson, and he needed to get on the road.
Marla nodded in agreement. “Is there anything I can do?”
He started to shake his head, then thought to say, “Call me if she shows up here.”
“Okay.” She forced a smile. “I hope it works out, Spencer. I mean that.”
“Thanks.” Damn, she really was an okay person. Arizona knew it, but then, she was a good judge of people.
Was her judgment enough to see her through the trap this morning? He prayed so.
But he’d do what he could on his end, and he’d see that the others were there, as well.
Arizona wasn’t alone anymore.
One way or another, he’d get her to understand that.
* * *
AN EARLY-MORNING SUN, blazing red, pierced the sky, turning hazy clouds pink and mauve and reflecting off the pavement. It’d be a scorcher, hot and humid and typical for this time of year. She wouldn’t complain. She liked hot weather better than cold.
Too many layers hindered her ability.
Arriving at the site early, Arizona drove slowly down the street, looking around for a possible ambush. She spotted Quin right away, sitting on a bench in front of “Harry’s Hocks” pawn shop. Though someone wanted her to think otherwise, she knew that Harry’s was shut down, had been shut down for a while.
So why the sign in the window stating he’d open at noon?
One possible setup.
To the right of that building, a drive-thru convenience store with a multi-locked front door and an iron grate on the one remaining window boasted bright, graffiti-covered bricks. The drive-thru window, layered in bulletproof glass, had a sliding metal tray for taking money and handing out products. But that was on the opposite side of the building, near a corner street.
To the left was an abandoned florist shop, the lot overgrown with weeds, the front sign hanging crookedly, the once-ornate script faded to near invisibility.
Beside that was a pay-at-the-pump gas station that had seen better days. Then an auto parts store, a cigarette shop, and a place that cashed checks. All were run-down, all looked disreputable.
So early in the morning, few people were out and about. Only sluggish traffic moved past, and they weren’t travelers who’d give a damn about crimes committed, petty or otherwise.
They were the “see nothing” crowd, the “mind my own business” denizens who either didn’t care, or knew better than to get involved for fear of retaliation.
On other buildings, some of them used as homes, cardboard and plywood covered the windows. Porches barely remained intact to structures. Refuse had gathered in every nook and corner.
Quin sat slumped on a bus bench in dirty clothes, his hair matted, his legs pulled up so that his face rested on his knees. Massive oak trees, their roots breaking through the buckled sidewalks, separated him from an empty parking lot, no longer used thanks to broken glass. It looked as though he’d slept there, seeking the shelter of the trees.
Had he been homeless in the recent storms?
Trying to find relief from the unrelenting sun and heat of the day?
He’d somehow escaped Dare’s net when the police closed in at the Green Goose. Maybe Quin had something to hide, something in his past that made him wary of the law, even when it tried to rescue him.
Or maybe someone else had gotten to him first.
She circled the block, then parked her car well away from the area, about half a mile down, closer to a grocery store. After locking it tight, she strolled back to where she’d seen Quin. That morning, in the dark at Spencer’s house, without making a single sound, she’d dressed in worn jeans, unlaced sneakers and a big loose T-shirt. To keep it out of her way, she’d contained her hair in a high ponytail.
The sun baked down on her head, bringing perspiration to the back of her neck, down her spine.
All along the way, she marveled at the trees. Despite the devastation of the area, there were so many of them, big and healthy and beautiful. At some point in time, the area had probably been really pretty.
Like her, time and abuse had forever changed it; it would never be the same.
Quin didn’t hear or see her approach—which made Arizona doubt any willing complicity on his part. Anyone versed in criminal activity would have picked her out several blocks away, since she didn’t bother with stealth. Shoot, trying to slide in and out of the neighborhood would mean utilizing alleyways and darkened doorways, and that’d be more dangerous than coming down the middle of the street.
After scrubbing his hands over his face, Quin pushed up from the bench to pace. Arms folded around his middle, shoulders hunched, limping slightly, he made his way nervously out to the curb, back again.
What are you up to, Quinto?
Her jeans hid the gun at her ankle. Snug against the small of her back, she felt the sheath for her knife digging in with each step she took. Not the knife Chris had just given her. No, she wouldn’t risk losing it. It was too precious to her.
She’d left it, and all the other gifts, in Spencer’s truck.
When, if Spencer started looking for her, would he understand the significance of that? Would he see it as a sign that she wanted to come back?
To him. With him?
No, she hadn’t taken her new knife. But various other weapons filled her pockets, some obvious, some less so.
At the moment, her best weapon was rage.
When she got close enough, she hid it all with a smile. “Hey, Quin.”
Startled, he jerked around so hard he almost fell. He froze at the sight of her standing there. Staring at her wide-eyed, something awful shone on his face, something akin to paralyzing fear.
She went still, too. He looked…ravaged. Her eyes narrowed. Her voice soft with menace, she asked, “What happened to you, Quin?”
A hot breeze sent the enormous tree limbs swaying, leaving dappled sunlight to dance over his dark skin. He shook his head without answering. “You came early.”
An accusation? His eyes looked wild, filled with fear. Knowing the gig was up, that Quin was part of a trap, Arizona shrugged. “I’m not a real trusting sort.”
Almost sick, he lifted a shaking hand to his face, and his eyes closed. “I’m sorry.”
“Because?” She walked past him to the lone bench, all the while keeping watch. All of the surrounding buildings offered concealment for creeps; the danger could come from anywhere.
But if she didn’t face the danger, she couldn’t very well combat it.
“I had no choice.”
“Yeah, I figured that, ya know? I can tell the good guys from the bad. So how about we get away from here now? I could help you, if you’d let me.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Because?” she asked again.
“I…” He swallowed hard, went through an internal battle, and then blurted with remorse, “I have a sister. A young sister. She is all I have.”
Ah, that figured. “So someone’s using her to make you toe the line, huh?” Sympathy welled up, but she hid that with the rage. She didn’t have a sister. She had…no one. Well, maybe Jackson—but God help anyone who tried to use him. “How old are you, Quin?”
“Sixteen.”
She sat down on the bench. “You’re working with someone.”
His face went pale.
“I already know it. The thing is, I don’t know who. The raid you talked about at the bar? How’d you get out? How’d this other person get out? Or was he ever there?”
He shook his head. “I had no choice.”
“Yeah, I know. We already covered that, right?” She kept her senses open, alert to any intrusion of danger. “I’m not blaming you, you know.”
“But you will!”
So much fear. She understood it, because she’d felt it before. Who was she kidding? She sometimes felt it still.
Otherwise, she wouldn’t have gone to Marla, trusting her to cover her ass. If this all went wrong, and it very well might, well then, Marla would tell Spencer, and he’d let Jackson and the others know, and one way or another, they’d find her.
She’d left enough info for them to easily track her.
And if she got hurt in the bargain…well, at least Quinto would be free. At least a scumbag would pay.
If she’d gone to the others first, no way would they have let her be involved. Going to the bar was enough to get their panties in a bunch. Meeting in this neighborhood?
No, they’d have nixed the deal to try something else, and while she trusted they’d have eventually been successful, what would have happened to Quin in the meantime?
“Come, sit down, Quin. Let’s talk, okay?”
Shaking his head, he took a step back.
Her senses prickled. “I’m at least an hour early, so I’m guessing we have a little time, right?”
He breathed faster. “Actually…” His dark eyes lowered. He shook his head again. “No.”
Arizona felt the shift in the air.
Oh, shit.
She sprang from the seat just as three men approached, all from different angles.
Three! Well, they weren’t taking any chances with her, the buttheads.
She grinned as the first guy got close, and when he reached for her, she kicked out, catching him in the balls. He doubled over. At the same time she ducked a meaty fist from another man and spun around. She kicked him in the knee. It hurt him but not enough.
She could draw her knife, but she had no illusions about getting away.
Not from three men.
Showing her knife now would only put her at a disadvantage—she’d lose the knife for sure, and she had a feeling she’d need it later.
A hard arm wrapped around her neck, wrenching back her head, while others grabbed for her wrists. A cloth-covered hand clamped over her mouth.
She didn’t understand…until she breathed in the sickly sweet scent, and dizziness assailed her.
Chloroform.
No, hell, no! Anger gave her strength. She tried to hold her breath as she doubled her efforts, stomping toes, gouging shins, but the dizziness got worse.
She managed a solid head butt, got her heel into a soft groin…
Someone cursed while someone else laughed.
Off to the side, a man said, “Get her feet, you moron!”
A fourth man? What the hell? Had they sent a battalion after her?
Unfortunately, Quin was cowed enough that he jumped to obey, struggling to grab hold of her feet. She kicked him in the face, bashing his nose and sending him backward. Poor Quin crumpled to the ground, blood flowing.
Someone laughed even harder at that.
“You’re useless,” the man said. “Utterly useless.” And then, out of nowhere, she got clubbed in the temple.
And even as she faded, Arizona feared for Quin.
She also recognized the voice.
Joel Pitts. The homely little creep from the bar. The kindly, goofy artist.
Well, hell.
Now it made sense.
* * *
FROM THE TOP of an abandoned building, his eyes burning, Spencer watched Arizona being dragged into the pawn shop. Each of the men who’d dared to touch her would pay dearly. He’d see to it.
He had himself under icy control, because that’s what was needed.
But as soon as he had her safe again—
Jackson crept up beside him. “How many?”
“Counting the kid and the fucked-up artist, five. The artist and the kid went in with her.”
“So the others are just guards, huh? That’s convenient.”
“She maimed them,” Spencer said, and he tried not to sound admiring. But damn, she was a handful and then some. If there hadn’t been so many of them, she just might have pulled it off.
Jackson leaned up to look over the roof and grinned at the sight of one guy rubbing his crotch, another still bent double, holding himself, and the third limping on a damaged knee as he went around to the back of the building. “Girl’s got deadly aim, ya know?”
Yes, he did know. He’d once been the recipient of that aim.
Before she’d come to trust him. Before she’d come to stay at his home.
Before she’d given herself to him.
Knowing he had to block those thoughts or emotion would overshadow deliberation, he shook his head. “Dare is watching the back exit?”
“Yeah. He’ll have that third guy covered, too. Unless they have an underground tunnel, they aren’t going anywhere with her.”
The building they’d dragged her into was square, squat and visible on all sides.
With the note she’d left, Arizona also had left detailed info about the area. She must have gotten up early enough to run the neighborhood through a program check. In one sentence she’d apologized to Spencer for not telling him her plans, and in the next she’d told him that if he insisted on getting involved, he should follow her instructions.
And he did.
“Could be a basement.” It amazed Spencer that he managed to string together coherent words with such blazing rage squeezing his throat and surging through his bloodstream. Trust went both ways, but Arizona would learn more about that once he had her safe.
“Probably is. At least a cellar or something like it. Most of these old shitholes have them.” Jackson chewed his bottom lip and shocked Spencer by deferring to him. “So what do you want to do?”
“Kill them all.”
“Seriously?”
Damn it. Jackson hadn’t sounded particularly shocked or disagreeable about that idea. Spencer shook his head. “No, not the kid.” He rubbed his tired eyes and accepted the truth. “I believe that’s Quin, the waiter from the bar. Arizona…cared for him, that’s why she’s here. He could be in a forced situation. And she’ll kick my ass if I let him get hurt.”
“And if it turns out he’s not forced?”
“Then she can do whatever she wants with him.”
“Gotcha.” He sent a code to Dare and Trace, then looked through binoculars. “Huh. I can see them.”
Spencer took the binoculars from Jackson and was relieved to see Arizona’s eyes open, a mean smile on her mouth.
Thank God. The relief was enough to rob him of composure. He hadn’t wanted to consider any alternative other than her being dazed. Now that he could see her—looking brazen as always—he could breathe a little easier.
“We could force our way in—” Jackson said.
“But she could get hurt in the process.” They didn’t know if Quin or the artist might be armed. “No, we have to do this right. And her note did ask us to give her some respect.”
Jackson snarled something indistinct but nodded.
“Doesn’t sit right with me, either.” Spencer kept his gaze on her, willing her to caution. “But she didn’t think we’d let her do this on her own—”
“And we fucking wouldn’t have!”
The respect she deserved.
No more trying to change her.
They both fell silent as they considered the setting.
Her idiot captors had her on a thin, narrow mattress, in a middle room, but in view of a window. Quin hovered near her side, traces of blood now smeared over his face, and his nose, upper lip and chin purpling with bruises. The kid probably had a broken nose—not that Spencer would spare him any real sympathy. Not yet anyway.
Joel Pitts stood at the foot of the mattress, staring at Arizona and literally rubbing his hands together.
Clichéd prick.
Lowering the binoculars, Spencer asked, “You got a clear shot from here?”
A crack sniper, Jackson lined it up, and said, “Yep.” He continued to look through the scope, then lowered the rifle. “The thing is…you won’t like this, Spencer.”
His heart slammed to a standstill. He put the binoculars up again. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Arizona is giving me the signal to wait.”
Tension vibrated through him. “There’s a fucking signal for that?”
Jackson scratched his ear. “There’s pretty much a signal for everything.”
He couldn’t believe it. “So she knows we’re here?”
“She’s sharp as a tack, so, yeah.” He rolled to his back and pulled out his cell. “And it looks like she’s awake, pissed off and determined to call the shots.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ARIZONA DID HER BEST to ignore the pain in her head. It throbbed, pulsed, and every so often, her stomach cramped as if she might puke.
But since her hands were tied behind her, and she didn’t have a bucket handy, that’d be really gross.
“I think you scrambled my brains.”
At hearing her speak, Joel jumped in delight, expectation bright on his face. He drew a shuddering breath of excitement when she sat up straighter. “You’re awake!”
“Barely, asshole. What’s your deal, anyway?”
He shriveled back. “Listen to that language. What is wrong with you?”
