Chapter Seventy-Seven
Blade
S canning the street, I pulled into the driveway of the rundown dump and parked behind an F150 that was older than her damn Jeep.
Staring at the pickup, she didn’t say shit.
She hadn’t since we’d deplaned.
I’d gotten her into the rental. She’d watched Delta taxi to line up, then started bouncing her foot. It was still fucking bouncing.
I threw the rental in Park, glanced at the rearview mirrors, and gave her a beat to say something.
Silently fucking losing it, she didn’t.
I owned my decision. “Want to know why you’re here?”
“No.” Her foot stilled, but she shrank down in her seat. “I want to know why you’re doing this.”
Because the woman didn’t have anyone else. “Because I can.” It was the least I could give her. But staring at the shithole she’d run from had me questioning what the fuck I was doing.
“Awesome,” she deadpanned.
I scanned the street again. No foot traffic. More cars than houses. Everything coated in a few decades of poverty, the neighborhood looked worse in daylight. “I was twenty-two the first time I got shot.”
The woman inhaled. Then the brunette who was all tits, ass, and attitude came out. “You know what? If you’re about to give me some kind of SEAL speech or compare my life to yours, save your breath. We’re nothing alike, and I don’t need a degree in psychology to see where this is going. You got shot. You survived. You got back on the horse—yay you. Thank you for your service. Truly. Can we go now?”
Christ, this woman. “I didn’t get back on the horse.”
She threw me a look like I was full of shit. “Right.”
“I never got off.” I’d been full throttle since my old man showed me his Trident and told me I was going to earn one or die trying. Fucker never mentioned earning it was the easy part.
“Let me guess. Because you’re superhuman and insane?”
“Because my Team leader shoved some QuikClots against the holes, wrapped tape around my shoulder, then told me to take out the motherfuckers who shot me.”
“Did you?”
Every goddamn one. “You don’t have to get back on this horse.” I tipped my chin toward the house that should’ve been hers, free and clear, seven years ago. “But if you don’t face the shit that made you run, you’ll be carrying it the rest of your life.” My first Team leader didn’t just understand facing shit head-on, he lived it.
“That’s not your decision to make,” she argued.
“You’re right.” It was hers.
Her voice went quiet, but it didn’t lose the determination she carried like a badge of honor. “I’m not a murderer.”
I gave her the hard facts. “Doesn’t matter what you do to that piece of shit. He stole from the cartel. He’ll be dead by nightfall.”
Panic hit her features. “Then why are we even here? You said I would be safe. They know this house. They know where he is. And Henry will kill me if he sees me. This isn’t safe .” Her pitch escalated with every word.
I grabbed the back of her neck. “You’re safe. Ashland’s restrained. He won’t fucking touch you. But he is on borrowed time.” I applied pressure, then gave her the full weight of why I brought her here. “You want the last time you saw this piece of shit to be the image that sticks in your head? Or do you want to see this motherfucker for what he really is?”
She fucking trembled. “What’s that?”
“Powerless over you.” And a goddamn coward.
Her chest rapidly rose and fell twice, then she sucked in a deep breath and held it a beat. “Okay.” She exhaled. “Okay.” She nodded. “But I’m not killing him.”
Good. Then I could. “Copy.”
Staring at my eyes like she fucking knew me, she shook her head. “You’re not killing him either. Promise me.”
“Not making that promise, woman. He tries anything, he’s done.”
“Blade—”
I cut her off. “We’re moving.” Scanning the street once, then double-checking the magazine in my Sig, I downloaded and gave her parameters. “House is trashed. We’ll deal with it later. Wait til I open your door, then stay on my six. We’re heading directly to the basement. Five minutes. In and out. Then we’re heading to a hotel for the night. Copy?”
She bit her lip.
“Out with it, woman.”
“What am I supposed to say to him?”
Any goddamn thing she wanted. “You know how to shoot?”
“Blade.”
“Your old man or grandfather teach you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Put a gun to his head. He’ll piss himself.” It’d give her a whole new fucking perspective. “Not telling you one way or another to pull the trigger, but whatever happens, I got your six. Copy?”
She looked away, then nodded.
“You want my Glock?”
“No.”
“If you change your mind, let me know. Exfilling. Hold.” I got out of the rental.