Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
He didn’t have a gun. His knives had been taken. Nash knew because he’d done a quick pat down on himself to see if the jerks might have overlooked a few of his favorite tools.
Unfortunately, they had not. Thorough pricks.
He’d been stripped of weapons. He was in a hot, musty shed in the middle of the desert, and the creeps coming in the door wanted him dead.
But Delaney still loved him. So, hell, yes, he had a reason to keep living.
His head hurt like one right bastard. Pounding and throbbing and aching in the back where he could feel the wetness of blood. His shoulder burned, and his thigh still trickled blood. All things considered, though, he was in pretty good shape.
Delaney still loved him.
And he was about to annihilate every threat around her.
Slowly, he rose. He hadn’t faced the enemy yet, he figured that he looked bloody as hell from the back. He could feel the wetness of blood on his shirt. Dripping down his back from his head wound. That was the thing about head wounds. They bled and bled.
His enemies would think he was weak. They’d underestimate him. That was exactly what he wanted.
One called to Nash, “Hey, bastard! Guess what you’re gonna get to do?”
Slowly, deliberately stumbling, he turned toward the men. Two men in the doorway.
“Boss wants you to dig your own grave.” He tossed a shovel at Nash’s feet.
A shovel.
Seriously?
Nash had been thinking he’d have to use his belt to strangle these morons, and then they go and throw a shiny weapon at his feet. Weren’t they the generous idiots? He bent to scoop up his new, precious gift.
“No, no! Do not kill Nash!” Delaney’s desperate cry. “I want to see Kurt! I want to talk to him—Nash can’t die!”
She loves me. It was hard not to be freaking shouting with joy, but he had a job to do.
He picked up that shovel, making sure to look nice and weak and injured as he did so.
The fact that his blood kept drop, drop, dropping around him really helped set the scene.
For just a moment, though, his head turned toward her.
Trust me. He mouthed those words to Delaney.
One of the bastards bellowed, “Get your ass out here! And start digging!”
He shuffled toward the door. Delaney stayed behind him. When he got outside, more darkness waited. A million stars glittering overhead. But he didn’t really care about the stars. His focus was on the men who thought they were going to bury him.
The two perps who’d come into the shed. A third man who stood near the front of a dark Lexus, and…
“Well, well,” Nash muttered as his grip tightened on the shovel. “I did not think I’d see you again.”
And the motel clerk who’d sold him and Delaney out to Kurt Wellington ambled toward him. Beneath the glow of the moon and the stars, Nash could see that the kid’s face was swollen and bruised. Nash grunted. “You look like you got the hell beaten out of you.”
The kid surveyed him. “Same, man. Same.” He whistled.
His hands were shoved into the baggy pockets of his pants.
“This is not personal. Like, it’s about survival, you know?
I am all about my own survival.” He pulled out a knife.
He pointed that knife at Delaney. “I’m gonna need you to come here, lady. ”
Oh, hell, no.
“I have a job to do,” the kid continued. But he wasn’t really a kid, was he?
“Tell me your name.” Nash maintained his hold on the shovel.
“You’re about to be dead, man,” the guy told him. “Why does my name matter?”
“It matters.” Then, deliberately, he said, “Trust me.” But those two words weren’t for the little creep who should not have been there. They were for Delaney. His signal that he was about to attack and that she was not to get anywhere near that jerk.
“Charlie,” the punk mumbled. “Name’s Charlie.” He gestured with his knife toward Delaney. “Come on!” Louder. A shout. A desperate one. “He’s gonna be here soon!”
A car door slammed. The rear door of the Lexus. The headlights of that Lexus turned on, firing right at Nash. The driver had turned on the lights while the man who’d just exited the vehicle casually strolled forward.
“Hate to break it to you,” Nash tipped his head to the left, toward the approaching figure, “but I think he’s here already.”
Sure the hell enough, Kurt Wellington was strolling toward them. Cocky, confident. Soon-to-be dead.
“Why isn’t he digging a hole?” Kurt’s annoyed voice carried easily through the night. “I believe I gave an order. The man was supposed to dig his own grave.” He reached their small group. “And then I am going to shoot him and send his ass to hell so he can fall into that grave.”
“Kurt, stop this!” A frantic plea from Delaney. “Let him go!”
Kurt’s head swung toward her. “Hello, darling. I missed you.”
Charlie lowered his knife and edged back nervously.
The two goons with the guns kept them aimed at Nash, but their attention was divided now, as well. The boss was there, and his presence seemed to make everyone nervous.
Good.
“I’m about to make you a grieving widow.” Kurt seemed happy to deliver this bit of news to Delaney.
“Nash and I are not really married,” Delaney fired back. “The ceremony was staged. Everything was faked. You’re surrounded by the cops, and they are about to swarm and take you into custody.”
Insects chirped in the distance.
Kurt glanced around. “Is the swarm going to happen anytime soon?”
More chirping. No swarming.
“That’s what I thought.” Satisfaction purred from Kurt. “See, I happen to have a mole at the CIA. I’ve been steps ahead of you the whole fucking time. No one is coming. Nash Quinn is dying, and then I will be taking everything that belongs to me.” He took two, hard steps forward.
Not quite close enough, but almost…
“Carmello promised that I would get everything,” Kurt snapped. “I was his errand boy for years. I did his dirty work. I paid my dues. I bided my time. I moved up through the ranks. I was supposed to take over the throne when he passed.”
“I don’t think there was a throne.” Nash felt duty bound to point this out. “Just a whole lot of crimes.” And prison time. A whole lot of prison time just waiting in the wings.
“You interfering ass! I did everything that Carmello ordered! Drug deals, smuggling, hits—I took out his enemies, and I never blinked. He said that I’d get everything in the end.
That I’d get what I was owed. He swore that I was the heir to his empire.
” Kurt pointed at a silent Delaney. “Then he brought you home. When you arrived, he wanted me to stay in the shadows until the time was right. I thought, sure, fine, Carmello is old freaking school. He wants me to marry into the family. So I kept playing his game. Waiting, waiting…”
A hot wind seemed to blow against Nash’s skin. He wanted to look back at Delaney. Instead, he kept his head bowed, his shoulders slumped, but his eyes remained on Kurt.
Kurt wanted to talk, so Nash would let him. Confession was supposed to be good for the soul, wasn’t it? It was also good for the CIA.
“Then one day, that SOB Carmello says that—that maybe I’m not right for his precious granddaughter.
That maybe she should have been with someone else.
The old guy starts talking about second chances and bullshit and how he needed to go see his maker with a clean conscience.
” Rough laughter. “A clean conscience? After everything he’d done?
After what I’d done for him? No way. No freaking way.
He didn’t get to change the plans. I killed that bastard then and there, and I—”
“You killed him?” Delaney’s ragged voice.
“Don’t pretend you care,” Kurt mocked. “No one cared about Carmello, and he cared for no one. All that mattered was his stupid blood line. He was going to use you to pump out kids so that he’d have great-grandsons to carry on his name.
His attack of conscience would not last. I didn’t buy that second chance crap he was peddling.
There are no second chances. So I eliminated him, and I stepped in to take what was waiting.
The whole dynasty, the fortune, the world that was waiting for me. ”
Okay, well, that felt like a full confession to Nash. “Sound travels at night.”
“What?” Kurt waved his hands angrily. “What in the hell are you mumbling about?”
Nash lifted his head. “Sound travels at night. Especially if you’re the CIA and you have the best listening devices and sound amplifiers imaginable.”
Kurt stomped toward him. “There is no one else out here, you arrogant ass!”
Perfect. Now his prey was close enough. Nash slammed his shovel right into Kurt’s face.
Bones cracked. Smashed. Some teeth might have shattered, too.
Nash didn’t stop to check. He was already spinning and ramming his shovel at the men with the guns.
One took a hit to the stomach. The shovel plowed hard into him.
Even as that one was falling, Nash whipped the shovel around and pounded it toward the hand of the other gunman.
The gun went flying out of that jerk’s grip. And then the shovel collided with the side of his head. Goon number two hit the ground right next to his buddy.
“Get her, Charlie!” Kurt bellowed as he spat out blood.
“Run, Delaney!” Nash thundered. “Run!”
The driver of the Lexus had jumped from his vehicle and was sprinting for Nash. Nash swung his shovel again. It clanged when it drove into the driver’s head.
Charlie lunged for Delaney. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he chanted as he came at Delaney with his knife.
Done with the driver, Nash surged for Delaney, but Kurt threw his body against him. They collided, hitting the ground, and that tricky bastard Kurt pulled a gun on Nash. “You’re dying!” Kurt screamed at Nash. “You are dying!”
Nash rammed his elbow into Kurt’s throat.