Page 125 of Brazen Deceits

By the time Walker backs the van down the alleyway, I’m lost in a fog of lust, words incomprehensible until Trips lifts me into the van, the three men working quickly to load our enemies aboard as I return to the present.

As I’d hoped, once the lust fades, my brain kicks back in, sluggish, but functioning.

One last step.

We can do this.

We have to.

Chapter 57

Trips

The haze of my rage hovers just out of reach, the need to keep Clara safe the only thing stopping me from pummeling those assholes until their shells of meat and bone are nothing more than canned dog food smeared on the blacktop. Watching Clara as we load the goon squad into the van, I keep myself present for her. I stop myself for her.

Keeping her in my line of sight, I catch the moment color settles in her cheeks.

She’s back. What will it take for me to get there too?

I’m not there yet. I slam the head of the goon who grabbed her into the running board for an extra-special concussion as RJ and I swing him into the van.

“Sorry,” I say—to RJ for the sudden shift in weight. Not to the goon. If Clara didn’t need me, I would still be wailing on the motherfucker.

He touched her. He had his hand under her goddamn skirt.

Taking out four guys in less than ten minutes with a mad sprint in the middle should have made me more Zen or some shit, like Jansen on a good day.

But right now, the only thing keeping that bastard alive is that Clara needs him for her pseudo-plan. So a second concussion is the best I’m going to do—for now.

Clara leans over RJ’s mic, Walker running to the front of the van, wheels screaming as we rocket out of the alley, the sirens singing in the distance. God. This is not the white-collar crime I fucking signed us up for. Clara’s eyes barely focus on the monitors as she clears her throat. “Jansen? Where are you at? Your carriage is en route.”

There’s a grunt. “Umm. I’ll be there.”

“God-fucking-damn-it, Jansen,” I growl.

“I would like to see you,” there’s another grunt, “crawl backwards,” there’s a whistle of metal that makes my heart stop, followed by the silence of a large, empty room, “through an air vent, Trips,” he whispers.

“Just be ready, Jansen,” Clara says, a small shiver coursing up her spine.

RJ sees it, settling a hand on the small of her back.

We all heard what the goon said. There’s a reason RJ let me smash the bastard’s head a third time when we finally got him onboard.

She turns to him, blinking twice. “Can you make sure we don’t show up on the cameras at the front of the museum?”

He presses a kiss to her arm, the only place available from his chair. “I’ll get all the ones I can.”

Then she turns to me.

Her dark eyes are hazy. Right now, murdering that asshole rapist at my feet would be a mercy. “Trips, we need to make it look like the gorillas had a falling out, a fight.”

I hold out a hand, and she takes it, her fingers arctic against my own. “I can do that,” I say.

She plucks a small black portfolio from the goon who has his fucking pants undone. The strap catches, so I lift his dead weight so she can yank the bag away, then drop him back onto the floor, the bang like butter on a burn. Blood is seeping out of the fists and nose of another guy, leaving her to scoot closer to me to keep her boots clean. Unzipping the case, she stares at the original Rubens.

I like Walker’s better. His felt more alive than this one.

The van slams to a stop, Clara steadying herself against me, and I want to lock her away, to keep her from ever ending up in another situation like the one she just put herself into.

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