He watched the man for a few more minutes but there was nothing threatening about him. Nothing pinged in warning—no tingling sensation along the back of his neck, no unsettled twist in his gut.
He shifted and swore again. There was a small food joint down the street that probably had a bathroom. If he was lucky, it would be in working order. If he was really lucky, it wouldn't be lined with filth and grime.
Not like he hadn't gone in worse places.
Decision made, Colter opened the door and climbed out of the truck. A quick check assured him his keys were in his front pocket, his wallet was in his back pocket, and his Glock 19 was securely hidden in the concealed holster at his lower back. He yanked on the tail of the heavy flannel shirt as a precaution. Yeah, he had a concealed carry permit but that wouldn't stop anyone from asking questions—or causing trouble, depending on who it was—if they happened to see the weapon sticking out.
He locked the doors manually so the beep of the alarm wouldn't draw attention to him then took off down the street, automatically blending in with the shadows. Nobody paid attention to him and even if they did, all they'd see was just one more resident making his way along the cracked sidewalk. They wouldn't notice the way his gaze darted left and right, always searching, always looking. They wouldn't notice the set of his shoulders, or the way each step was carefully measured and placed so he could move in any direction without hesitation.
The way he walked, the way he moved, the way he silently studied everything around him had earned him the nickname Ninja when he joined his unit just out of BCT. But how he moved had nothing to do with any training. For him, it had been a matter of survival, of learning to become invisible first from his father, then from the string of men his mother had brought home in her desperate need to be taken care of. They couldn't use him as a punching bag if he was invisible, if he was able to guess their next move before even they knew what they were going to do. It was a skill that had saved his sorry ass more than once when he was growing up, and later once he joined the Army.
The scents of cooked food and spices washed over him with the warm air that greeted him when he entered the small food joint. A few tables with chipped surfaces were pushed against the wall, the mismatched chairs occupied by a handful of people either eating their food or waiting for their orders. Colter moved to the counter and asked where the restroom was, only to have the young woman silently point to a sign behind her that clearly said restrooms were for customers only. He glanced at the menu, ordered some eggrolls and paid, then was grudgingly handed a key attached to a large plastic block.
Colter made quick use of the facilities and was back at the counter, waiting for his order. Ten minutes later, he walked out the door, a small bag containing his food held in his left hand.
He studied the darkened streets, his gaze sweeping left and right as he moved toward his truck. The man at the corner was still there, nearly bent in half as he leaned forward in a sway that should have toppled him to the ground. A pair of kids, maybe in their early teens, maybe a bit younger, bounced a basketball back and forth between them as they walked along the opposite sidewalk. A younger girl, her slight frame engulfed in a worn-out coat two sizes too big for her, turned the corner up ahead. Her head was down, her braided hair covered by a fuzzy pink hat with stains visible even in the shadows.
Awareness shot through Colter and he paused, watching the girl. What were the chances she was the same girl he'd seen the other night with Allison? The hat was the same, and so was the timid, almost uncertain way she held herself.
He watched her for a few more seconds then lengthened his stride to close the distance between them. If she wasn't the same girl, then no harm done in asking. But if she was the same girl, maybe she'd know where Allison was. At the very least, he'd be able to find out if it really had been Allison he'd seen, or if this was all nothing more than a fool's errand, that he'd only imagined seeing her.
He was a few yards away when she finally noticed him. Her head came up and for that first second, a look of terror filled wide eyes devoid of all innocence. She blinked and the terror morphed into something else as she offered him a smile that was too forced, too calculating.
"Hey, Mister. Did you need any company tonight?" Her voice was brittle, edged with a sharpness that spoke of an unwilling life on the streets. Disgust clenched and twisted his gut when he realized exactly what she was offering. Not just because of what she was doing, but because she was so damn young. Looking at her more closely, he realized she couldn't be more than thirteen, if that.
A flash of panic filled her dark eyes when he shook his head and she moved closer, desperation twisting her thin face. She glanced over her shoulder then turned back to him, that forced smile back in place.
"I'm a real good listener. We could go somewhere quiet and, you know, talk or something."
Colter shook his head again but tempered it with a small smile. "I'm not much for talking but I do have a few questions you might be able to answer."
The desperation on the girl's face morphed into suspicion as she took a cautious step back. "I don't think—"
"I'm looking for a woman." Colter reached into his front pocket and pulled out the folded fifty-dollar bill he always kept there. He tucked the bill into the crease of the carryout bag so the girl could see it then held both out to her.
The girl moved a little closer, her eyes darting from Colter to the carryout bag then back again. "What woman?"
"I think you may have been with her the other night." He motioned to the opposite corner with a quick nod of his head. "Her name is Allison and she's a friend of mine."
The first glimmer of hope that he was finally getting somewhere filled Colter when a flash of recognition lit the girl's eyes. That hope quickly died when a shout from behind him drew the girl's attention. Fear flickered in the depths of her wide eyes as her gaze darted past Colter. He heard a woman call out, the voice filled with sharp warning and edged in pain—a voice he recognized immediately.
"Shonda, run!"
Colter was already turning toward the sound of Allison's voice when the girl spun around and took off running in the opposite direction, the soles of her shoes slapping against the concrete. Colter ignored her, every muscle tense and alert, braced for the unexpected.
Allison was ten yards away from him, her arm held at an awkward angle by a man dressed in a dark hoodie and ripped jeans. Shadows hid the man's face from view but Colter didn't need to see his face to know the man was angry—he could feel it rolling off him in waves, hot and acidic. In seconds, maybe less, that anger would be solely focused on Allison.
Colter moved, each step quick and silent. He saw the fear on Allison's face, the flash of recognition in her eyes when their gazes met. The recognition was quickly replaced by desperation as the man moved the knife he held against her side.
"You stupid bitch! I warned you not to get in my way." His voice was low, raspy and hoarse. He was still focused on Allison, hadn't realized that Colter was moving toward them.
Hadn't realized the threat that Colter presented—
And that was his mistake.
Colter knocked into the man, using his shoulder to push him away from Allison. He heard a surprised grunt, felt the man's body tense as he turned and faced the unexpected threat. Anger, raw and feral, crossed a face ravaged by drugs. Dark eyes narrowed to slits and he raised his arm, slashing out with the sharp blade. Metal sliced across Colter's side, igniting a thin line of fire just below his ribs. Allison screamed, a sound of surprise and outrage.
Colter ignored her, grabbed the man's hand with one of his own and twisted. Bones snapped and a sharp cry of outrage and pain filled the night air as the knife fell to the cracked concrete.
The man struggled, swung out with his other arm and tried to break Colter's hold on him. Colter was more than happy to oblige. He released the man's hand, grabbed him behind the neck, and brought his head down in one quick motion. The man's face made contact with Colter'
s raised knee. There was a muffled sound of cartilage breaking, followed by a low grunt, then silence.
Colter released his hold on the dazed man, watched as he crumpled to the ground and rolled to the side. A second went by, then another and another, but the man did nothing more than lay there, groaning.
Colter pulled in a deep breath, winced at the sharp pain in his side, then turned toward Allison.
And damn the woman, because she was already moving away from him, ready to turn and flee. He reached for her, closed his hand around hers. Held his breath, wondering if she'd pull away. Wondering if she'd try to run again.
So many emotions danced in the warm brown eyes he'd dreamt of for so long. Worry. Anger. Fear. Determination and stubbornness.
Need.
Desire.
And, finally, relief.
Tears filled her eyes and she quickly blinked them away. The hand in his was so much smaller, so fragile, the fingers chilled and trembling. She squeezed his hand then stepped toward him, wrapped one arm around his waist and rested her head against his chest with a sigh that was both weary and relieved.
"Colter."
That was all she said, just his name. But it was enough—
For now.
He wrapped her in his arms and pressed a gentle kiss against the top of her head. Held her for a brief minute as distant sirens split the cold night air, the sound growing louder as they moved closer.
There were so many things he wanted to say, so many questions he wanted to ask—but not here. Not now. Later, when they were safely back at his place. He stepped back, her hand still held in his, and quickly led her to his truck. She wanted to balk, maybe even to argue—he could feel it in the way her hand tightened oh-so-briefly in his. Saw it in the way her shoulders stiffened and in the way her stubborn chin rose just a fraction of an inch. But she must have seen the flash of warning in his eyes because she didn't say a word, just let him lead her to his truck and climbed in when he opened the door.
Colter wasn't fooled. She may have come along willingly for now, but that willingness wouldn't last—which meant he'd have to be on guard and watch her at all times so she wouldn't take off again. And she would, the first chance she got. He was certain of it.
He just hoped his willpower held out because he wanted to do a lot more than keep his eyes on her.
Chapter Four
Colter unlocked the front door then stepped back, waving Allison in ahead of him. She hesitated, her brown eyes cautious and wary, then sighed and moved forward. He bit back a small smile. Not because there was anything even remotely amusing about this whole fucked-up situation, but because he knew Allison wasn't surrendering. Yeah, she might be here now but if given the chance, she'd disappear again in the blink of an eye.
He didn't think he'd find her so easily the next time.
That thought wiped the smile from his face as he closed the door behind him. And locked it. And threw the deadbolt and security latch. No, it wouldn't stop her from running off but it would slow her down.
Maybe.
He tossed the keys on a side table near the door then motioned toward the sofa in the small living room to his right. "Have a seat, I'll get us something to drink."
"I'm not thirsty."
And there it was, the first hint of stubbornness. Colter met her gaze, held it until she finally sighed and looked away. She moved to the leather sofa and lowered herself to the edge. Every line of her body communicated her displeasure. Her tension. Her eagerness to escape. Hands clasped tightly in her lap. Legs together. Back stiff and straight.
No, she wasn't happy about being here at all.
Colter moved past her into the small kitchen and dining room area. The rear of the house was opened, giving him a clear view of where she sat—he wouldn't have moved otherwise because he didn't trust her not to run.
He placed the small cooler on the countertop next to the refrigerator then reached for the cupboard holding his mismatched collection of glasses. Fire flashed along his side and he winced, glanced down at his ruined shirt and the dried blood stiffening the material. The cut wasn't bad—meaning he wasn't going to die—but he'd have to take care of it.
Later. Right now, he needed that drink.
And he needed answers.
The first wave of anger washed over him, just a gentle lap of emotion that caught him by surprise. What the hell had Allison gotten herself into? Did she have any idea what could have happened to her? When he'd seen the knife held at her side, when he'd seen the fear flash in her eyes—
He pushed the images away and ruthlessly tamped the anger down. Now wasn't the time for anger.
He grabbed his favorite bottle of bourbon and splashed some in two glasses—more in one than the other—then grabbed both and moved back into the living room. Allison was sitting in the exact same spot, in the exact same position, her gaze focused on her feet. He stopped in front of her, watched her for a few seconds, his mind cataloguing the differences between the woman he remembered from the island and the woman sitting in front of him.
Her hair was longer, worn straight and loose and a little tousled. The glowing tan was faded but her complexion was as smooth as he remembered and free from any makeup. A smudge marred one cheek and he had to resist the urge to lean down and wipe it away.
She wore her jacket open, revealing a plain gray sweatshirt that hung on her, hiding the dips and curves of her body. Her jeans were faded and tattered, the hems worn and frayed. Her shoes—nothing more than a serviceable pair of generic sneakers—were stained and dirty and showing signs of wear.
If Colter didn't know her—know in a way that he couldn't explain—he would have never recognized her. It wasn't just the clothes or the slight physical differences, it was Allison herself. There was something harder about her. Edgier.
The woman he'd met on the island more than a year ago had been more relaxed. Fun-loving and exuberant. Less serious and far more trusting. The woman in front of him was anything but relaxed and trusting. There was a tension to her, a subtle hardness that spoke of a newfound street sense.
Colter knew all about street sense. He'd grown up in an environment that demanded it—an environment completely different from Allison's upbringing.
What the hell was she into? What the hell had happened to her to bring about this new change?
He sat on the edge of the coffee table directly across from Allison and offered her the glass of bourbon. "Drink."
She finally looked at him, her gaze filled with stubbornness. "I'm not thirsty."
"Don't care. Drink it anyway."
"When did you become such a tyrant?"
"About the time I saw some punk hold a knife to your side."
Her gaze dropped, first to the glass in his outstretched hand then to the gash in his shirt. "You need to get that taken care of."
"I will. Later." He pushed the glass toward her, watched as she finally reached for it. Her fingers brushed against his and just like that, a spark of awareness danced across his skin. Her gaze shot to his, held it for a brief second before she looked away. He hadn't been the only one to feel that spark, that bite of raw awareness.
Didn't matter because nothing could happen between them. Not back then, when they'd been on the island, and sure as hell not now.
Yeah, right. Maybe if he said it enough times, he'd finally believe it.
Colter slid back on the table, putting some distance between them before raising the glass to his mouth and taking a hefty swig. The bourbon coated his mouth, his throat, warming him from the inside out. He took another swig—smaller this time—then cradled the glass between his hands and looked back at Allison.
"Want to tell me what the hell is going on?"
She shook her head. Took a sip of the bourbon and winced. Shook her head again. "Not really, no."
"That wasn't a request, Al. What the hell is going on?"
"Nothing."
"Like hell. What are you involved in?"
"It's nothin
g."
"Don't tell me it's nothing. Some asshole pulled a knife on you. That's not nothing."
Allison took another sip of the bourbon then lowered the glass, stared into the amber liquid for a few seconds then shook her head. "It's not what you think."
"You have no idea what I think, Allison. You don't want to know what I think." An unexpected edge crept into his voice, surprising him. It wasn't until the words left him that he realized the direction of his thoughts. The way she was dressed, where he'd found her, how he'd found her—it all painted a picture that made his stomach clench and twist with dread and anger and fear.
He fought against the unexpected emotions, pushed them away and forced a gentleness to his voice. "Allison, are you in some kind of trouble? Do you need help?"
"What?" Her head shot up, her gaze locking with his for the space of several heartbeats. Every conclusion he'd just jumped to must have shown on his face because her gaze widened then quickly narrowed as anger flashed in the depths of her eyes. "You think—? Ohmygod, you can't be serious! You actually think that I'm working the streets!"
"That's not—"
"The hell it isn't! I can see it in your eyes. In the way you're looking at me."
"I'm not looking at you in any way, Allison. And the only thing I'm thinking is that my buddy's kid sister is in some kind of trouble."
"Don't bring Ryder into this. It doesn't concern him."
"Does he even know you're here? That you're in trouble?"
"No, and he doesn't need to know. And I'm not in trouble." She slammed the glass on the table next to him then pushed to her feet. "And what the hell were you even doing there tonight? Trolling the streets? Looking for a girl?"
The Savior: COLTER (Cover Six Security Book 6) Page 3
