Chapter Three #2
He pulled back, leaving my brain scrambled. Since I was incapable of speaking, I stared mutely as he released my wrists, only to pry one of my hands off his chest and use it to pull me around the dingy couch.
“Excuse us.”
We were crossing the threshold of a doorless doorway when I found my voice. “Where are we going?”
“To work this out.”
Jack threatening to spank me immediately sprang to mind. My hand in his involuntarily spasmed.
“Not that way, Cat. But I like the way you think.”
Goodness gracious, the dude was the master of mixed signals. One second he looked like he wanted to throttle me and was telling me I was a pain in his ass, the next he was whispering sexy things in my ear.
“What is this place? And where is it?”
“Palmira.”
Well, that explained the short van ride. This neighborhood was only a few blocks from where I’d been eating lunch.
“Are you insane? Palmira is controlled by Adrián Lopez.”
“No crazier than you walking down the street with a neon sign flashing above your head announcing: beautiful American, please take me. And I’m impressed you’ve done your homework.”
I yanked my hand, trying to free it from his grasp. Unfortunately, this did nothing. His grip was ironclad.
“Just so you know, your insult canceled out your compliment.”
We’d only made it a few feet down the corridor when I heard a sharp whistle.
Jack jerked to an abrupt halt and turned his head to look behind me. I craned my neck to see what had stopped us.
Pete was standing at the open doorway. Right hand up, index finger extended, circling the air.
“What’s—”
“We have company,” Jack irately announced.
“What kind of company?”
“The bad kind.”
Well, shit.
This couldn’t be good. Jack and his buddies were in Lopez’s territory.
I highly doubted they asked the gang leader for permission.
I was equally sure if they had, Lopez would’ve killed them on the spot.
His numbers weren’t as high—those numbers being members, not kills—as some of the other local gangs.
I’d been warned to stay clear of Lopez and the Calaveras.
Lopez was known to be ambitious. That ambition was shrouded in brutality.
There was only one way for the Calaveras to claim neighborhoods that were already controlled by a rival—war.
The Calaveras had earned their name honestly by keeping the severed heads of the rival leaders when they acquired a neighborhood.
I didn’t want my skull to be Lopez’s newest keepsake.
“Our talk’s gonna have to wait.”
I bit back my ‘no shit, Sherlock’ retort and opted for something more relevant.
“I’m unarmed.”
Jack pivoted, his strides now urgent as he towed me behind him back into the large warehouse.
“Cat needs kit.”
I heard Mason chuckle before he peeled off and disappeared behind the van.
Pete was glaring at a tablet. Fallon already had an M4 carbine hanging across his chest from a sling and was shoving a handgun into his thigh rig.
“Four tangos C-side,” Pete started, then swiped his thumb over the tablet screen. “Six coming up on A.” Another swipe. “B and D are clear.”
I glanced at Jack for an explanation.
“Side A.” He pointed to the large bay doors. “Clockwise around the building.”
In other words, side A was the front, C was the back, and B and D were the sides.
“Got it.”
“Yo, Cat,” Mason called. “You want the Beretta PX4 GS-D or the Rugger-Magpul RXM collab?”
“Is the PX4 the Langdon Tactical edition or the compact?” I asked.
“Compact.”
“I’ll take the RugPul.”
Next to me, Fallon snorted.
“What?”
“Just surprised.”
Now I was getting annoyed. “That I know the difference between an RXM and PX4?”
Fallon’s eyebrow winged up.
“Fuck no. I’m just surprised you have shit taste like your boy in platforms. The RXM is a total Glock knockoff. I took you for someone who would appreciate a G-type decocker.”
“We got ten heavily armed men converging on us; maybe you two gun nerds should wait to debate striker fire versus hammers after we put them down,” Pete suggested.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
Mason was coming my way with two rifles slung over his shoulder, a vest in one hand, and the RXM in the other. Gone was his sexy-beach-bum persona as he morphed into untouchable warrior.
“Here. It’s gonna be big on you but it’s better than nothing. Mag pouches are full.” He held out the vest. I took it and quickly put it on.
I ran my hands over the pouches, getting a feel for where my reloads were. The vest was set up differently from how I normally kept mine, but there was no time to reorganize. I pulled the straps on the sides as far as I could, but it was still huge.
“This isn’t going to work. It’ll bounce around when I run.”
I was pulling back a Velcro strap when Jack’s hand knocked mine out of the way, and he refastened the cummerbund.
“It stays on.”
“Jack—”
Suddenly we were nose to nose.
“It . . . stays . . . on.”
The tiny pauses between each word with the added enunciation left no room for argument.
“Fine. But if a thirty-round mag busts my lips, I’m blaming you.”
“You bust your lip, I’ll kiss it better. You take a round to the chest without a plate, I’ll be pissed.”
“They breached the fence. Time to roll out,” Pete commanded.
Jack stepped back.
Mason handed me the RXM, shoved my arm through the tactical strap of the M4, and told me, “They’re both chambered.”
“Locked and loaded and ready to go,” Fallon called out.
As a team, the men made their way to the van with Pete leading the way. I was sandwiched between Fallon in front of me and Jack behind me.
Jack was helping me into the van when it dawned on me . . .
“Where’s your kit?”
“Guns are already in the van.”
“Where’s your vest?”
“You’re wearing it.”
With that, he slid the metal door closed in my face.
You’re wearing it.
Jack gave me his vest, which meant he’d left himself unprotected.
Damn.