Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)

by Allie Juliette Mousseau

  I wonder what she’s thinking, then she asks, “What happens to you . . . once you deliver me safely into FBI custody?”

  “I go home.”

  She nods and puts her eyes back onto the passing scenery. “Where’s home?”

  “Minnesota.” All of a sudden home doesn’t sound appealing.

  The fuck? I don’t want to leave her? I think about that and can’t decide if it’s my instincts telling me she’s not safe or if it’s my dick remembering what she looked like in that towel. I shake my head to clear it. I have a job to do and I’m here to get it done.

  “Were you born and raised there?”

  “No.” I decide that’s enough said.

  Back at the hotel I was all badass. I’d played the hero, and it felt fucking great, especially when she smacked the alligator with the oar. She was trying to help me; it was the first step in our fragile trust process.

  Then she came out of the bathroom in nothing but that little towel. It was the gold movie scenes are made of. Fucking outstanding!

  I adjust myself in my seat as my dick remembers what she looked like too. And how she acted. Her eyes weren’t scared any longer. In fact, they’d been almost hungry.

  My flirting was casual enough. But the truth is, I hadn’t really wanted to leave that hotel room so soon. At least not before taking something that wasn’t mine.

  And she isn’t mine, I tell myself. Developing an attraction for someone you’ve just rescued is very bad business practice.

  “Ryder?” She’s impatient. Like maybe she’d said my name a couple times and I’d been zoned out.

  “Yeah?”

  “Come on, we have a long way to go, and I haven’t had a conversation in days. Where did you come from, then?”

  Friendly, light conversation is good. “All over the place.” I think of my parents and then Chief and Betty. “I’ve lived in almost every state, at one time or another.”

  “Was it difficult, not being settled or having roots?”

  “Who says I wasn’t settled? I had roots,” I answer more defensively than I mean to. “Deep ones.”

  She goes quiet again.

  Fuck me. Had. That one little word that, even after all these years, still comes out with an extra dose of bitterness.

  “Did you serve in the Navy?” She’s looking at the Navy trident I have inked on my lower right rib.

  I can’t do this with her. This isn’t light conversation. She’s hitting on intimate subjects.

  She waits for an answer.

  I flick on the radio. “Do you have a preference?”

  It happens to be tuned to a pop station. “Cecilia and the Satellite” just started.

  “WAIT!” She throws up her hand. “I love this song.”

  Farrington closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in. “I thought I’d never hear it again, you know? Music.” As the song plays, a smile lights her face.

  From this angle—with the wind blowing through her long brown hair, leaving a scented trail of berries and pomegranates in the car, the fitted Longhorns t-shirt . . .

  Don’t look at the fucking t-shirt! She had to go braless, and the view is—literally—achingly perfect.

  . . . shorts and flip flops—she resembles a regular girl; carefree, talkative, her fear of Miguel and his men left back in Port Arthur.

  That is dangerous for her on so many levels—it made her an unaware target for Miguel’s men—and maybe worse, she no longer comes across as an in-peril witness to me but as a healthy, vibrant university student for the mutually pleasurable taking.

  And it would be pleasurable on so many levels.

  “I couldn’t believe, every day that went by, that they hadn’t killed me.”

  And that snaps me back to the fucked up reality that she’s just been rescued, I’m going to drop her with feds and I’m never going to see her again.

  I focus on the hum of the tires as they speed over the blacktop, but the thought of never seeing her again doesn’t settle well. And I wish it was as easy a solution as having what I’m sure would be one hell of a phenomenal fuck to get her out of my system before walking away—though that thought does conjure up some very pleasant images. No, it’s admittedly becoming more than that. Farrington, with her pointed questions and this open look on her face, like she really wants to know my pain—is that something she learned in psych school?—has somehow managed to get into my head, and is working her way beneath more than just my skin.

  I almost can’t deny her. I get the urge to open up and tell her what I was going to hide—what I’ve been keeping in the dark for all these years. I could do it, right? Just answer her fucked up intimate questions as if we were a man and a woman on a serious date, or as if we were two regular people on a road trip. Like it didn’t affect me.

  How long has it been since I talked about it? My parents, Chief and Betty? My ridiculously fucked up life and, maybe more importantly, my non-death.

  Why does her presence—which has only been amicable for the last few hours—cause so many bipolar, whiplashing inconsistencies in my own thoughts?

  Christ! She keeps singing that goddamn song, and she really is quite terrible. Every other note is off-key and I come to the conclusion she’s probably tone deaf.

  But she’s so fucking adorable.

  And alive.

  Her entire presence radiates with a shining, vibrant life-force. I find myself craving her resilience, her passion, her joy.

  There is something about her that makes me want to allow myself to be sucked deep into her soul and stay awhile.

  I can’t help but take my eyes off the road to lay them on her.

  Something happens in that moment, like the flip of a switch. I don’t know what it means, except that all I want in the world right now is to keep her safe, return her home to her mom and sister ASAP, and murder Eduardo Miguel before he can cause her any more harm.

  We’re less than forty miles out of Shreveport, when an unmarked comes up on my ass.

  “Farrington, I need you to get down on the floor of the vehicle.”

  She unlatches her seatbelt and slides down. “What is it?”

  “Trouble.” Two other vehicles slip in behind and in front of us. Blue and red lights turn on and wash through the vehicle and over the surrounding buildings. We’re in a downtown community—restaurants, people walking to work, cars everywhere.

  We’re surrounded and being herded by local law enforcement. Which is exactly what I didn’t want to have happen.

  I keep my speed, and it’s not long before I spot the barricade in the center of the road.

  “Ryder?”

  “We’re getting pulled over by what looks like police.”

  “Oh my God! We’re safe!” she cackles and starts to get back to her seat.

  “Stay down!” I order gruffly.

  “Why? We’re far enough away from Port—”

  “Farrington, shut up and stay down. We have no idea who these men are,” I bark.

  This is not some routine checkpoint.

  Carefully, I pull the car over and stop. They wedge in behind me. I put in a fast call to Briggs. “Have D’Angelo make some calls, I have a gut feeling this isn’t going to go nice,” I say. I leave him our coordinates and hang up.

  “You’re being paranoid,” she accuses.

  “Unfortunately, we’re about to find out.”

  In moments they descend like a swarm around the car, guns drawn.

  “COME OUT OF THE CAR WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!” one of them bellows through a megaphone.

  I look down at Farrington and realize there are too many things I need to tell her. That I should have told her.

  That I want to tell her.

  Before I can get out one word, the metal barrel of the officer’s pistol taps the glass by my head.

  “Stay—” Before I can finish my instructions, she opens her car door and spills out onto the blacktop. “. . . where you are.”

  If only she’d stayed in the
car, she would have given me a few more seconds to think.

  Fuck it. I unlock my door and put my hands on my head. The car door is yanked open, and I’m ripped out of the vehicle and forced over the hood.

  “What do we have here?” The officer confiscates my firearm.

  “I’m a United States recovery agent. Badge is in my right pocket.”

  He laughs at me and pats me down roughly with about twenty other cronies standing watch, pistols drawn.

  “You can see I’m wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, do you really think you’re going to find something else?”

  His hand slides over my shorts, into the crack of my ass and under my balls.

  “I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not your type.”

  “I’d shut the fuck up if I were you.”

  “And I thank the good Lord I’m not you.”

  “Funny, asshole,” he says condescendingly. “Do you know who that woman is right there?”

  “Do you?”

  He gives me a scornful glare. “You think you’re a fucking big man recovery agent.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I laugh.

  My arms are yanked behind me roughly, and I grit my teeth through the pain in my arm. I’m cuffed as I watch the same thing happen to Farrington.

  “Chief wants a word,” Ballsy-boy, who searched me earlier, exclaims as he slides open the door to the holding cell that I’ve been incarcerated in for the last hour. He leads me down the hall to the police chief’s office.

  The Mansfield chief of police greets me from behind his polished, ostentatious desk as Ballsy-boy wheels in my equipment bag on a delivery caddy.

  “You’re free to go, Mr. Axton,” the chief tells me.

  After taking a quick inventory of my belongings and detecting only the new burner phone I hadn’t used gone, I say, “I’m not going anywhere without Miss. Farrington.”

  “She’s no longer your concern,” he informs me coolly. “We’ll take care of her from here.”

  Ballsy-boy and Officer Douchebag, the guy who unofficially interrogated me, are standing behind their chief with smug grins plastered to their ugly faces.

  “I need to verify the safety of—”

  “You’re in no position to be making demands,” he interrupts me while he leans slowly back in his leather chair and crosses his arms over his chest.

  “You’re tampering with a federal witness and obstructing justice—” I begin.

  “We’ve already made arrangements with federal agents. Sergeants Oliver and Guthrie are highly qualified and will officially escort Ms. Farrington the rest of the way to Shreveport safely. So you see, your services are no longer required,” the chief of police—Warner is the name on his desk plate—states.

  “These two aren’t competent enough to get laid in their own wet dreams,” I say.

  Douchebag lunges a little at me, while Ballsy-boy puts an arm out to stop him.

  “That’s enough from you, Mr. Axton,” their chief tells me in a threatening tone.

  I press the knuckles of my clenched fists onto his desk and lean closer, putting myself right into his personal space and giving him an intimidating glare. “I haven’t even started.”

  He stands to make his position known. “We don’t think very much of bounty hunters in this part of the country. All we see is another thug criminal with a gun.”

  “Excellent.” I smile. I love threats. “But I’m not about to pin Farrington’s life on your word. I require proof.”

  “I owe you nothing, Mr. Axton. Not even a phone call,” he drawls. “And I don’t ever want to see your face here again in DeSoto Parish.”

  “I’m real glad you said that.” I nod. “Now I know how to proceed.”

  “Officer Guthrie, escort our guest out.”

  Douchebag Guthrie walks me to the front of the station and out the door.

  “By the way, Axton”—he drops the new burner phone I had in my equipment bag to the concrete and comes down hard on it with the heel of his shoe—“forgot your phone.”

  “I have a feeling we’ll meet again someday.” In fact, I’m sure of it.

  Rachel

  I keep remembering Ryder’s eyes, like smooth and polished deep green sea glass, with an onyx black band around the iris that makes them stand out even more. I shiver, replaying the way those beautiful eyes made me feel when he looked deeply into mine.

  “Miss Farrington.” The voice forces me from my thoughts.

  A police officer has finally come for me. He’s a heavyset man—evidence that he spends more time behind a desk than in the field—with thinning hair and an unfriendly mouth. “I’ve been waiting here for almost two hours!” I complain.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience; there were several channels I had to follow to assure your safety.”

  “Thank you.” I’m sure that hasn’t been a simple thing.

  “I’m Chief Warner.” He shakes my hand. “Some of my best officers are readying an armed entourage to deliver you without harm or interruption to agents in Shrevesport.”

  “Thank you again. When will we be leaving?”

  “I’m here to escort you to the vehicle.”

  “I’d like to call my mother first,” I tell him. “And see Ryder . . . Mr. Axton, who I came with.”

  “To safeguard your protection we’ve been instructed not to employ the use of any cell or landline with you in custody until we get you safely to Shrevesport. The FBI is concerned about wiretaps—but I guarantee you’ll be able to call your mom in just about an hour, once we’re sure you’re in the right hands.”

  “That’s disappointing, but I guess understand,” I say without conviction. “And Mr. Axton?”

  “Mr. Axton received his bounty for recovering you and is gone.”

  “Gone?” I trill. “That can’t be.” I shake my head, confused.

  He reads me like an open book. “I’m sorry you’re upset. But once he was paid, his job was finished. Bounty hunters don’t stay involved once they’ve delivered.”

  “Oh.” He just left me. Without saying goodbye?

  What was I expecting?

  I was expecting him to check up on me! This news stings a lot more than I’d like to admit.

  “Chief, Miss Farrington’s escort is ready.” A female officer pokes her head into the tiny waiting room I’ve been locked in for my own safety for the past couple of hours.

  “Officer Bloom will be your female escort,” the chief tells me as officer Bloom extends her hand for me to shake.

  “Thank you very much for your service,” I say as I shake her hand.

  “No problem, Miss Farrington,” she replies.

  I’m led to a secure garage lined with black, shiny SUVs. Some of my escort are in plain clothes and others are in full blue uniforms.

  “Who are the federal agents we’ll be meeting up with?” I ask.

  Chief Warner watches Officer Bloom and I slip into the back seat of one of the pristine vehicles. “Agents Stanley, Decker and Marshall,” he answers as he closes my door and the driver rolls down the window so we can finalize our brief conversation. “You’re in excellent hands, Miss Farrington.”

  I look over at officer Bloom and she smiles reassuringly.

  The chief taps the door twice and the engines turn over. Three SUVs—I’m in the middle one—pull out under the late afternoon sky.

  Nobody is much for talking, which is fine with me.

  Why did I think he cared about me? You were persuaded by his Venus dimples and his rough but elegant mannerisms and ink, I tell myself.

  God, I’m so gullible. I wonder how much he got for bringing me to the police.

  I’m so curious, I almost ask officer Bloom, but then I figure I’ll keep my shame to myself. Don’t need to be humiliated in front of a stranger.

  So, I read him wrong. It—I—was just another job to him.

  About a half hour into our trip, we encounter congested traffic. A mile further, and the front vehicl
e turns off the main highway and east onto Route 1.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Officer Bloom.

  “We don’t want to be trapped on the highway, so we’re taking an alternate route into the city,” she tells me.

  “Good call.” I look out the darkened window behind me and watch our rear guard follow. I definitely feel safe with a troop of three vehicles. My attention turns to the trial. “Have there been any leads in finding Miguel?”

  Officer Bloom shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry.”

  I nod. There is something seriously wrong with me. I almost had a vision of Ryder coming with me—you know, like staying with me until the trial was over. Maybe because he promised he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me. He said he’d personally protect me from Miguel.

  I guess his protection had an expiration date, and it was a hell of a lot sooner than you thought, Rachel.

  Who the hell is Ryder Axton anyway?

  It doesn’t matter. I’m in a good, sure, safe and dependable place now—I’m in protective custody—and Ryder Axton is a serious wildcard.

  I feel my eyes grow heavy with sleep as the smooth ride lulls and rocks my body.

  He did promise me a hot meal, and I haven’t eaten anything since his lame gas station fare. Just more empty words.

  Jesus! He saved me from Miguel, and rival gangs and alligators. Get over yourself! I scold inwardly.

  But I remember his rugged hands on my body, keeping me afloat in the murky waters, keeping me alive even though I fought him every step of the way. With my eyes closed I can see every curve, crevice and line of his beautifully disciplined body—the tattoos, along with the scars I never asked him about.

  I had wanted more time.

  He simply hadn’t.

  My belly growls, offended. Grow up.

  I fall asleep thinking about cuddling with my little sister and mom on the couch, watching some Netflix marathon and letting go of everything that’s happened.

  When I wake up, it’s to shouts of orders, anger and profanity as the vehicle I’m in is run off the side of the highway and into a ditch.

  The driver jacks the steering wheel too far to the left, and panic overwhelms me as we go over, rolling onto our roof and sliding deeper into the grassy crevice.