Page 2 of Out of Control

While he unbuttoned his jeans, I reached up and grabbed the empty water glass, smashing it into the side of his head. He released my throat and sat up straight, but otherwise didn’t react.

So I socked him in the face.

When that shocked look morphed into the nothingness of sleep, I pushed him off me and onto the floor. I stood, finally able to roughly wipe my hands down my dress, shaking off the feeling of that walking red flag of a man. I adjusted my dress, wiggling my boobs back into place and slipping my spaghetti straps back onto my shoulders before shrugging into my jacket.

Leo Lombardi was a key figure in the Morelli crime syndicate, and I needed to know what information he had hidden in his apartment.

It was time to get to work.

one

Lucas

Lombardi was still there, waiting, just outside of the security checkpoint in baggage claim. I didn’t know what he was doing out of lockup, but his arrogant smile told me the same thing my phone did when it showed no new notifications: this was no prison break.

He gave me a nod, acknowledging my pissed off face, pleased by it even.

I wanted to storm over to him, throw him down on the ground and handcuff him, but I couldn’t. I had a heavy suspicion, but no just cause.

Apart from that, Lombardi wasn’t the real threat right this moment: Antonio Conti was. So I delegated, pulling the attention of the TSA officer watching the non-sterile baggage claim area.

“Anything goes to hell in the next ten minutes, hold that man in custody while we sort shit out, you hear me?” I demanded, flashing my badge, pulling rank. Airports werefederal jurisdictions; an FBI agent’s commands trumped his regular patrolling duties unless his supervisor wanted to get involved and tell him otherwise.

He nodded, eyeing Lombardi disdainfully.

Good. I could pull my focus.

I turned around, heading back through the crowded terminal.

Antonio was leaning against a pillar at a nearby gate, the plane finishing up boarding passengers to Omaha. He wasn’t paying attention to me, just messing around on his phone.

Why was the little idiot twenty-year-old more dangerous than the forty-something, tattooed, hardened criminal? Because Antonio Conti somehow made it past security and could physically harm the witnesses I was assigned to protect.

I couldn’t let that happen.

There was no way he smuggled a weapon through security, but just his proximity was a threat to my people. I was tasked with making a distraction so they could get away and board a plane with their designated US Marshal, hiding out until it was time to go to trial.

I debated just walking up and tapping Conti on the shoulder, politely asking him to put his hands behind his back so I could place him under arrest. He’d cooperate. Definitely.

Totally.

I lost my chance to sneak up on him when a woman stopped next to him, asking him a question.

He leered down at her, pointing down the terminal. She nodded her thanks, shoulder length curls bouncing. She had no idea who she was talking to, that this was a dangerous manwho murdered someone less than twenty-four hours ago. Who walked into a crowded police station to talk to and make jokes with a dirty cop. Who strolled right through airport security despite a warrant being out for his arrest.

Antonio didn’t seem to care about any of it, and that made him more dangerous than the experienced criminal waiting patiently—and unfortunatelylegally—out in the sterile area of the airport in baggage claim. I couldn’t approach this unpredictable suspect so broadly with the unknown woman in the middle of the danger zone.

She turned her head briefly, bright blue eyes darting across her surroundings. There was an awareness to her gaze; was Conti making her uncomfortable? She didn’t step away from him, but actually took another step closer.

But when she flipped her hair over her shoulder again—those gorgeous blonde curls as bright as her eyes—that wariness was still present. Was she talking to him under duress? If so, why did she approach him in the first place?

I took a second to look her up and down. Her clothes looked clean and made of high-quality material, the pretty aqua blue of her top highlighting her eyes. I didn’t see any bruises, and she didn’t look malnourished. Hell, she looked strong, athletic even, her lean legs emphasized in the form-fitting slacks she wore, her toned arms showcased past the short sleeves of her blouse. She wasn’t in any sort of long-term danger my experience trained me to look for.

Why was this gorgeous woman acting nervous? No, that wasn’t right. She wasactingflirtatious, but her eyes held a nervous quality to them. Why? And why would a strong,beautiful woman be flirting with a grease-bag of a human like Antonio Conti? He used enough hair gel that his black hair looked more like a shiny helmet than a head of hair. He definitely didn’t look like this woman’s type.

She glanced around again, briefly meeting my eyes. I tried to communicate a message to her, a warning, but her gaze flicked away as fast as it landed on me. She was more into the ridiculous wanted criminal with the ridiculous gray leather jacket in front of her than a clean-cut guy in a suit like me. Something was off; my intuition told me things were about to go very wrong very quickly.

I glanced back toward baggage claim again, wondering if Leo Lombardi had anything to do with the awful feeling creeping up my gut. The fates intervened and the mass of people thinned, leaving a clear view all the way across the terminal. My eagle eyes spotted Lombardi easily enough, his penchant for bright silk shirts—yellow in this case—working in my favor.

---