Chapter 20 Lachlan
LACHLAN
Glendale, AZ
The Arizona sky faded into a deep, dusky purple. The last hints of daylight bled along the horizon like my bruises from stealing home. The stadium lights still glowed when I slung my duffel over one shoulder, the water from my showered hair dampening my team-issued tee.
Beside me, Montana let out a satisfied breath, cracking his neck to one side. “Man, you have your nose so wide open for the Black Widow—”
“Natasha’s not the Black Widow.” I groaned, unlocking the driver’s door of our rental.
It was Friday night. Should’ve arrived the night before.
And tonight? I was supposed to take Natasha out, but I’d asked her to stay in LA until Saturday evening at the last minute.
I needed to focus on the game and smooth things over with the coaches, like bringing everyone breakfast tacos before tomorrow’s practice game.
Montana chuckled, a deep rumble that shook his chest.
I smirked, crossing my arms. “Och, here we go. You think you’ve got me all figured out, Big Country. I’ve not yet proposed to her, officially. So now you’re gonna make a joke about us keeping our engagement under wraps when it was a promise ring?” I’d buy Natasha a hunner wedding rings.
He shook his head. “The bébé looking out for you, so I ain’t gon bring that up. But man, the media gonna label the Black Widow once the paramedics scoop your lifeless body from the LA River. ‘Baseball Star Found Floating Like a Foul Ball.’ ”
I slung my bag into the back seat. “You’re mistaken. The LA River ain’t deep enough for anyone to enjoy fishing for my body.” Nodding, I scratched my chin. “They’ll recover me. Easy, I’d say.”
He wheezed out another laugh, leaning against the roof of the car like he was about to collapse. “Boy, keep talking like that. I’ma start sellin’ tickets for the funeral now.”
“Och. You ain’t even funny. I thought the third greatest baseball player I know would sell more tickets doing stand-up comedy.”
His brow shot up. “Third to who?” While rubbing his beard, he transitioned to French Creole, chuckling under his breath. “We already established I’m king. Listen, I made you second best—made sense. But third? You keep tempting fate, third? Bronze gon be the color of your casket.”
“Nae. Third greatest”—I nudged my chin at him—“that’s ye. Sharpen those comebacks, bràthair.”
Montana tipped his head back, laughing low. “Bruh, ain’t no comedy club in the world ready for a six-foot-four slugger from NOLA with a tighter swing than his punchlines. You? You’d be my opener.”
“Och.” I rolled my eyes. “The third greatest baseball player thinking he’s a stand-up? Ye’d better keep practicing, or the Laugh Factory gon be taking reservations for yer wake.”
We climbed into the SUV. The drive from Camelback Ranch to our Airbnb, the same Airbnb we’d rented since we were rookies, was filled with more jokes, and Glendale’s desert streets dimmed under the scattered streetlights. Palm trees leaned toward the road as I drove.
“Give me five,” Montana said as I pulled into the driveway of our modern condo, “then you can take me to dinner.”
I snorted. “You got the tab.”
“Ain’t no idiot, bruh. You had plans with Natasha tonight, maybe not as spicy as I’d have made if she were my—”
Yanking the miniature baseball mitten from the rearview mirror, I hurled it at his head. “Low blow,” I growled. “You don’t get five minutes. You get two!”
The door slammed shut. The mitten slapped against the glass, then fell into the empty passenger seat. He ran toward the house that resembled the others, a stucco cube.
While waiting, I leaned against the driver’s seat, eyes half-lidded. A lone cricket chirped near the hedge that separated our condo from the neighbor’s. My mind drifted to Natasha. Desperation urged me to see her tonight. My coaches, though? I needed to regain their favor.
My cellphone rang, and I blinked to focus on the unfamiliar 323 number. Los Angeles.
I tapped the On button and answered hesitantly, since I had to change my number on occasion.
“Are you in love with my daughter?”
The voice was familiar. I answered without an ounce of hesitation.
“Yes. With every part of me, I love your little girl, Mr. Resnov.” When Natasha first brought him to a game, introductions were on a first-name basis.
Here, as a matter of fact. That March? She’d kept her distance, at first. Now, I knew why.
Before her rape, she thought I wasn’t into her.
Then I became what she needed. Man, I wished that had been the case without tragedy hitting her so hard.
“Mr. Res—?”
“I’m here. She’s engaged.”
That was a reach. “Edik.” A smile entered my voice. Naxos had been peaceful, us on the beach day and night. She’d come clean about her father’s agreement with the Mikhailovs. She’d also said the Russian—
“Da. Edik can protect her in ways that you can’t, Lachlan. No disrespect to your family, I need my daughter safe.”
“I can pro—”
“Okay,” he barked. “That’s your game plan, da? Suit yourself.”
The call went dead. Angered, I worked my tightened jaw and glanced out the side-view mirror. My eyes scanned the other passenger’s mirror, then shifted toward the one on my side.
A flicker. Quick. Almost imperceptible.
I leaned forward slowly, senses sharpening.
There. By the gate that led toward the backyard—a figure. Just for a second, caught mid-step before slipping into the shadows.
My stomach dropped.
I stepped out of the SUV, ghost quiet. Gravel crunched underfoot. I scanned the opposite side of the condo, near the front door—no movement from Montana. No signs. Instincts screamed otherwise.
I rounded the front of the vehicle.
A baton swung from the blind spot near a hedge. The man behind it wore a ski mask and all black. I ducked just in time. The metal rod grazed the top of my shoulder. I countered with a gut punch, driving my fist into the attacker’s solar plexus. The man stumbled, wheezing.
I gripped the man’s head and slammed it against the SUV’s fender. His body crumpled inward, and he flopped to the ground.
A second shadow emerged, fast, from behind the A/C unit. He charged with a curved blade.
I pivoted, avoiding the first swipe. The knife grazed my ribs, slicing through the shirt.
Hot blood bloomed against cotton. I grunted and slammed my knee into the attacker’s thigh.
Not my aim, but he was quick on his toes.
As I reached to kick him again, I stumbled over the first guy and fell backward.
The knife arced down toward me. I snatched a landscape brick from the path and hurled it point-blank.
It connected with a dull crack. The man dropped while I kip-upped to a stand.
That was when I felt him.
A third one.
I turned—almost too late.
This man’s knife was different from the other guy’s. I recognized it instantly—military style.
“Okay, an ambush. That’s how it’s gonna be?” I dropped into a stance. Weight balanced. Hands up. Elbows in, shielding my bleeding ribs. My older brother might have gone the military way, but I had Scottish Highlands warrior in me blood.
I glared at the man, masked in black neoprene. He circled me. I mirrored him.
A whisper of wind stirred the palm trees.
Then—boom!
The soldier exploded like a thunderclap, feinted low, and struck high with the knife.
I dodged by inches, the blade gleaming in the moonlight.
I threw a forearm block. The impact numbed my elbow.
I launched a counterpunch to the jaw, but the soldier rolled under, hooked my ankle, and swept my legs out from under me. What the friggen hell?
The knife dove downward.
I twisted, dodging the fatal plunge, and grabbed the man’s wrist. We struggled. Muscles shaking, I pushed back against the steel pressing toward my throat.
With a guttural growl, I headbutted him. He grunted, a flicker of agony as the knife slipped from his grasp.
I used the opening to knee him in the side. Once. Twice. Then rolled off him.
We scrambled to our feet, bloodied, breathing hard.
No words. Just instincts.
The knife sat between us. As he started for it, I did too.
This time, he charged faster. Before he could reach it, I kicked outward. Damn. Almost connected with his face. He lunged toward me instead. Tight hooks to the body, a brutal elbow strike caught my temple and sent stars flashing across my vision.
I stumbled back.
The man struck like a coiled serpent—fast. Precise. I threw a punch. The ghost slipped it, ducked, and spun inside my reach. Never allowing me to catch a breath. I took the hits, blocked what I could. The blade slashed my hip.
I roared. Pain sharpened my focus. Pivoting, I slammed my forearm into the man’s throat, elbowing his jaw. The soldier reeled.
I tackled him, driving him through the side garden and into a wooden planter box.
Dirt exploded around us. We rolled, kicking and slamming into stone pavers.
The attacker raked his knife across my shoulder.
I elbowed him in the ribs, reached for his wrist, and wrenched it back. The knife clattered to the gravel.
I dove for it.
Too slow.
The masked man kicked it away and yanked me by the collar, wrapping one arm around my neck in a chokehold. I clawed at the arm, vision dimming. He’s gonna end you, Lach! Buck up!
Natasha’s face swam in my mind. The Bratva Tsar just called … a warning. And he’d sent a ghost to kill me.