The Savior: COLTER (Cover Six Security Book 6)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  "Allison!"

  Hands grabbed her and she screamed again, turned and blindly kicked out with her feet as she was pulled from the car.

  "Allison, stop. It's me." Hands raced along her body. Her arms. Her sides. Her legs. "Are you hurt?"

  She blinked, tried to make sense of the face above her, of the dark eyes studying her with concern and concealed fury. "C-Colter."

  "Are you hurt?" Each word was short and clipped, humming with an emotion she didn't understand. She shook her head. Looked down at her arms and legs, shook her head again.

  "I—" Her voice cracked and she swallowed, cleared her throat. "N-no."

  "Come on, we need to get out of here."

  "But—"

  "Now. Before they come back."

  She opened her mouth, ready to ask who they were, then shut it when she noticed the gun in Colter's hand. She stared at it, her numbed mind trying to make sense of it, of everything that had just happened.

  Someone had been shooting at her.

  Someone had tried to kill her.

  Her legs started to buckle and she stumbled, would have fallen if Colter hadn't grabbed her. But instead of pulling her into his arms like she expected—like she wanted—he steadied her only long enough to get her into his truck. He slammed the door and raced around to the driver's side, climbed in and sped away.

  Allison twisted in her seat, felt her stomach clench and roll at the sight of her shattered and damaged car. A strangled gasp caught in her throat and she turned around, her gaze dropping to the weapon resting so close to Colter's hand.

  Her mind struggled to grasp everything that had happened. The shooting. The fact that someone had tried to kill her. That weapon within Colter's easy reach.

  It was too much. All of it. She stared straight ahead and willed her mind to shut down. Willed herself to forget everything that had just happened.

  And tried to convince herself that she really hadn't been the intended target of a drive-by shooting.

  Chapter Eleven

  Fury burned inside him, a raging inferno that threatened to consume the last tenuous hold he had on his control.

  Colter glanced at his hands, surprised that they weren't shaking. They should be—his entire body should be trembling.

  With anger.

  With rage.

  With relief.

  His entire world had screeched to a halt when he saw that car pull next to Allison's. He'd known, in a way he didn't question, what was coming next. He hadn't thought, had simply acted, terrified that no matter what he did, it wouldn't be enough.

  That he'd be too late.

  That he'd reach Allison only to find her crumpled, lifeless body.

  He curled his hands into fists and pulled a deep breath in through his nose. Losing it right now wouldn't help anything. Later, when he was alone, he could indulge in a meltdown and yell and scream and seek retribution. But not now.

  Right now, the woman sitting on his sofa took priority.

  An odd sense of déjà vu swept over him. This scene was eerily similar to last night, when he'd brought her back here and sat her down to talk. To demand answers. To find out just what the hell she was up to. Only he'd obviously fucked that up because he still didn't have any answers and tonight...

  Tonight, she had nearly died.

  He tamped down the violent reaction the memories brought. As much as he wanted to go search out and destroy those responsible, he couldn't—because he didn't know who they were. He didn't know why they'd gone after Allison. He didn't know what kind of trouble she was in.

  He didn't know shit and for the first time since he'd been a young kid, he felt utterly helpless. It wasn't a feeling he was accustomed to and he wasn't sure how to deal with it, not when he was also struggling to keep his burning need for vengeance hidden from Allison. She'd never seen this side of his personality and he didn't want her to see it now.

  Not that she was seeing anything at the moment. She just sat there, her arms wrapped around her middle, her gaze focused on her feet. She hadn't said a word since he'd practically thrown her in the truck, hadn't even tried to remove her coat. He needed to get it off her, to shake out the glass and check her again for any injuries. How she hadn't been hit was a mystery he couldn't solve.

  The fact that she was sitting there, unharmed, was a miracle he didn't question.

  He turned and walked into the kitchen, forcing himself to move slow and remain calm when all he wanted to do was tear things apart. That wasn't an option so he focused on what he could do and grabbed the bottle of bourbon from the cabinet along with two glasses. He carried everything back into the living room, placed it on the coffee table, and poured a hefty serving into each glass. Then he sat next to Allison and held one glass out to her.

  "Drink."

  She jerked back in surprise, turned her head and studied him like she only now realized he was sitting beside her. One hand reached for the glass, brushed against the side of it then fell to her lap, like even that small effort was beyond her.

  Colter grabbed her hand, curled it around the glass and cradled her trembling fingers with his own. He led the glass to her mouth, steadied it as she took a small sip. Held it and waited until she took another one, bigger this time. A small shudder racked her body and she moved away, shaking her head.

  "I don't—"

  "One more. It'll help steady you."

  She took another sip then pushed his hand away. Colter raised the glass to his own mouth and drained it, knowing it would take a lot more than a hefty shot of bourbon to steady his own nerves.

  He placed the empty glass on the table then shifted so he was facing Allison. She looked at him, her brown eyes damp with unshed tears, her pupils wide with shock. He was quiet for several long moments, the silence stretching around them as he watched her.

  "Allison, I need you to tell me what's going on." He kept his voice low and controlled, knowing that yelling would only make things worse. But damn, it was hard, harder than he thought it would be—especially when she dropped her gaze and shook her head.

  "I—I don't know."

  "Who was shooting at you?"

  "I don't know."

  Colter bit back a silent oath then dipped his head so he could see her eyes. "Why were they shooting at you?"

  She shook her head again, straightened and ran one trembling hand through her hair. Several pieces of glass fell, the small tinkling sound oddly out of place. She looked down at the pieces of glass on her leg, staring at them as if trying to figure out where they'd come from.

  Colter swore, this time out loud, and stood up. He grabbed Allison's hand and pulled her to her feet then carefully removed her jacket. More glass fell to the floor. He ignored it then leaned closer, carefully brushing at her shoulders and neck until he was satisfied there was no more glass on her. She finally brushed him away, bent forward and ran her own hands through her hair, shaking her head a few times when she was done. She grabbed the second glass of bourbon and brought it to her mouth, drained it with two long swallows and a shudder.

  "They weren't shooting at me." Her voice was a little stronger, her eyes not quite as vacant. Colter heard the disbelief in her words, wondered if she was trying to convince him—or herself.

  "Then who the hell were they shooting at, Allison?"

  "I don't know but it wasn't me. They—they couldn't have been shooting at me."

  "Really? Because from where I was sitting, it sure as hell looked like it."

  "No. It—it must have been a mistake. They must have thought I was somebody else."

  "Who is they?"

  "I don't know. Just...they. Whoever they were."

  She was lying. Colter didn't know why, couldn't believe that she would try to protect whoever had been behind tonight's nightmarish hell. He grabbed her shoulders, leaned down so she would be forced to look at him.

  "Allison, I need to know what's going on."

  "Nothing is going on."

  "Someone shot up your
fucking car—with you in it! Don't tell me nothing is going on!"

  Allison jerked back, her eyes widened in surprise. At the use of his language, or the fact that he had actually yelled? He swore, released her shoulders and ran one hand across his face.

  "I don't think I've ever heard you raise your voice before."

  "Dammit, Allison, this isn't a joke."

  "I know."

  "Someone tried to kill you tonight."

  "I know." Her voice wavered and cracked. A second later, tears welled in her eyes and spilled over her lashes. Then she was in his arms, her face pressed against his chest, her hands curled into his shirt. Colter held her close, whispering meaningless words meant to soothe as she cried. Long minutes passed, her tears fading to muffled sobs before slowly dying out. Yet he still held her close, refusing to let her go, needing to feel the reassurance of her body against him. Tonight had been close, too damn close, a nightmare that would haunt his dreams for longer than he cared to admit.

  She eased from his hold, her face averted as she ran a trembling hand over her eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lose it like that."

  "Someone tried to kill you, Allison. You're allowed to lose it."

  She laughed, the sound empty and hollow. "I doubt if you and Ryder and all your buddies lose it when you're shot at."

  "We try not to make a habit of letting that happen." They also fired back, usually with deadly aim and accuracy. He'd fired back tonight, too, but he wasn't about to tell her that. "Allison, what's going on?"

  "Do you have any tissues? Or a paper towel?"

  The question made him pause and wonder if she was deliberately changing the subject—until he realized she wanted something to wipe her face. He went to the kitchen and grabbed some paper towels, even ran one under some cold water, then returned to the living room. Allison was sitting on the far side of the sofa, away from the small pile of broken glass, another glass of bourbon cradled between her hands.

  He watched as she wiped her face and blew her nose. Watched as she took a cautious sip of the amber liquid. He sat next to her, took the glass from her hand and placed it to the side. "Allison, I need to know what's going on. What happened tonight? Who was shooting at you?"

  "I don't know. Really." Her gaze darted to his, not quite meeting his own, then shot away again. "But I think it has something to do with Shonda."

  "The girl from last night?"

  "Yeah."

  "What about her?"

  Allison ran the palm of her hand along her thigh, back and forth in a gesture of nervousness. She shifted, her gaze darting around the room before landing on his for a brief second then flitting away. "I'm trying to help her. Get her off the street."

  Colter ignored the chill of foreboding creeping along his spine. "Okay. And?"

  "And...it's not going the way I hoped."

  "Because she doesn't want help."

  "It's not as simple as that."

  "You can't force her to accept help, Allison. When she's ready, she'll come to you."

  A ghost of a smile curled the corners of her mouth, there and gone in the space of a heartbeat. "That's what Linda keeps telling me."

  "Who's Linda?"

  "A friend. A mentor. She, um, she runs the organization I'm working with."

  "Another volunteer organization that you're involved with?"

  "Not like you're thinking, no. This one's a little different."

  "Because they work with girls on the street?"

  "It's a little more complicated than that."

  "How?"

  Allison dropped her gaze and pulled her lower lip between her teeth. A second went by, then another as she shifted. Leaned forward. Reached for the glass then sat back without touching it. She finally slid a sideways glance in his direction and sighed. "How much do you know about human trafficking?"

  The bottom dropped from Colter's stomach, freezing him. Everything made sense now, every little piece falling into place with a sickening click. He wanted to grab her. Shake her. Ask her how the hell she had become involved in something so dark and dangerous. Instead, he kept his face carefully blank and all expression from his eyes as he answered. "Enough."

  "Shonda isn't on the streets because she wants to be. She's a victim of trafficking. And I think—" She took a deep breath, let it out in a rush. "I think the man she was given to might be behind what happened tonight."

  Chapter Twelve

  Daryl "Zeus" Anderson reread the email for the third time. The words were clearly written in black-and-white, phrased in concise, easy-to-understand English—but he was still having trouble comprehending them.

  "What. The. Fuck." The words fell from his mouth in a volume that was just a notch above a whisper. He repeated them, louder this time in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, they'd help.

  "What. The. Fuck."

  He slammed one fist against the desk then hit the print icon in the top corner of the message. A sheet of paper slid silently from the printer, the top fourth of it filled with the black lines of the message. He pulled the paper from the tray and stared down at the printed words. They made as little sense printed on paper as they had on the computer monitor.

  He pushed away from the desk, the sound of his boots an angry thud against the tile floor as he stormed from his office and made his way down the hallway. This must be some kind of fucking joke. It had to be. There was no other explanation that made sense. He'd knock on the office door then open it and see Colter "Ninja" Graham sitting behind his desk. The man's face would be carefully blank as he studied Daryl, no doubt wondering what the fuck had possessed him to barge into his office.

  Only Ninja's office was empty, with no sign of the man and no indication that he'd been there in the last thirty-six hours.

  Fuck.

  Daryl spun around and moved down the hall, stopped to poke his head into Roman "Ox" Elder's office. "Have you seen Ninja?"

  "Not for a few days. Why?"

  Daryl swore, his voice a low rumble, and continued along the hall, passing Chaos's office, then Wolf's and Flare's. He heard Ox's voice behind him, asking him what was going on. Daryl should have kept his fucking mouth shut because Ox's question was drawing the attention of the other men. By the time he reached Boomer's office, he had a fucking parade behind him.

  Dammit.

  He looked over his shoulder, glaring at the knot of men gathered in the hallway. He considered ordering them back to their own offices then changed his mind. They'd go if he told them to but why bother? They'd only be back in a few minutes, as soon as they heard Boomer's howl of outrage.

  He just hoped that was the only thing the man did.

  On second thought, maybe it was a good idea to have the other men with him. No telling what the fuck Boomer was going to do.

  Daryl rapped his knuckles against the partially closed door, pushed it open at the sound of Boomer's low grunt. He looked up from the newspaper he'd been reading, his gaze curious. "What's up?"

  "Have you seen Ninja?"

  "Not recently."

  "Have you talked to him?"

  Boomer tossed the paper to his desk and dropped his feet to the floor before straightening. The first hint of wariness—and something sharper, edgier—showed on his face. "Yeah, the other night. Why?"

  "Did he say anything about what he was doing? What he's been up to?"

  "No, just that he was busy."

  "Busy doing what?"

  "He didn't say but I got the impression it was personal business."

  Daryl had thought the same thing the last time he'd talked to Ninja a few days ago, had even told the man to reach out if he needed anything. He'd had no idea what Ninja was doing then—but he was afraid he knew now. He looked down at the printout in his hand, read the few lines one more time as his gut clenched with dread. Yeah, he was pretty sure he knew what Ninja's 'personal business' was now—and it wasn't good.

  He looked back at Boomer, bracing himself for the explosion he knew was coming. "How long has yo
ur sister been in town?"

  "She's not."

  "You sure about that?"

  "Yeah, positive." Boomer rose to his feet, leaned forward and braced both fists against his desk. "She's out in Nevada or New Mexico or somewhere, playing games at saving the world."

  There was a muffled choking sound behind Daryl and he turned, fixed his gaze on Chaos. The other man met his gaze for a fraction of a second then looked away and cleared his throat.

  What. The. Fuck.

  He wanted to ask. Needed to ask. But not now. There was something else he needed to do first. After that—if they actually managed to control Boomer's explosion—he would deal with Chaos.

  Daryl moved deeper into the office, slammed the printout onto Boomer's desk. "There was a shooting last night in West Baltimore."

  Boomer glanced at the sheet of paper then looked back at Daryl. A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw. "Yeah, so? There's someone shot damn near every night downtown."

  "Nobody was shot." At least, not that Daryl knew of—which was the only positive thing in this growing clusterfuck.

  "Then what's the issue? Why are we even talking about this shit?"

  Daryl tapped his finger against the sheet of paper then slid it closer to Boomer. "A car was shot up in a drive-by."

  "And?"

  "The car was registered to Allison Hess. Your sister."

  "What?" Boomer's roar filled the small office, drowning the outbursts of the other men. Boomer snatched the paper off the desk, crumpling the bottom in his fist as he read it.

  "A witness got the tag number of a truck leaving the scene." Daryl took a deep breath and shared the rest of the information before Boomer could read it for himself. "The truck is Ninja's."

  Boomer's head shot up, his face flushed with anger. Instead of the explosion Daryl expected, the other man's voice was quiet—deathly so. And that worried him more than anything else.