Page 23 of Final Exit

The ache in his hip and thigh was, thankfully, almost nonexistent today. That was the way it went—some days were hell, others he barely felt a twinge of pain. But even though today seemed like it was going to be a good one, he was wearing the leg brace that he’d worn home from the hospital. Its hard plastic surface would protect him from any wayward kicks. Plus, he’d rigged the brace as another tool to help him, if he needed it.

It all depended on whether his plan came together as expected.

In spite of all that, he still debated removing the brace. The thing was hot and damned uncomfortable. But the black-and-blue bruises he’d noticed while showering had him worried. Blood flow was already compromised in the damaged muscle. Another whack, even accidental, might force him to go to a hospital. That wasn’t something he had time for right now.

So the brace stayed on.

After one last look up and down the street, he slid behind the steering wheel of the Mustang and backed out of the driveway. Forty-five minutes later, he rented a room at a cheap motel north of the city. Then he pulled into a parking space around back. He reached for the door handle, then froze.

The muzzle of a Sig Sauer nine-millimeter pistol stared at him through the window. And the person holding it was Bailey Stark.

Let the games begin.

She motioned for him to roll down the window and he briefly considered going for the gun holstered on his right hip.

“Try anything and you’re dead.” Her voice was muffled through the glass, her intentions clear.

He rolled down the window.

“Hand me your gun,” she said. “Butt first. Very carefully.”

He did as she asked. She tucked his PPK into a leather bag that hung from a strap that went diagonally across her body from shoulder to hip.

“Other gun, too,” she said, the muzzle of her pistol unwavering.

“What other gun?”

“Everyone wears a backup. And this nine-millimeter isn’t just for show.”

He held his hands up in a placating gesture. “All right. It’s strapped to my ankle. Hang on.”

He slipped his Hellcat .380 out of his ankle holster and handed it out the window.

It disappeared into her bag.

“Get out.”

The parking lot was full of cars. But in this heat, at this hour, people were either relaxing at the pool or holed up inside having lunch. Bailey had planned her approach the same way he would have. She’d also stepped out of reach of the door, eliminating the possibility of him slamming it against her to knock her down. She wasn’t a fool. She’d been doing this kind of work for a long time.

But so had he.

He popped open the door. Then he stood, holding his hands out from his body.

“I don’t have any more weapons on me,” he assured her.

“Prove it.”

He went through the motions of turning his pockets inside out, lifting the legs of his jeans to show that he didn’t have another gun or knife hidden anywhere. He even lifted up his shirt to show her nothing was concealed underneath it, front or back.

Then he slowly moved his hands to the top snap of his jeans.

Her gaze flew to his. “What are you doing?”

“Proving that I’m not hiding any other weapons.” He flipped the snap open, moved his fingers to the zipper.

She suddenly laughed, her green eyes twinkling, her entire face transformed into an expression of delight. “Well played,” she said, laughing again. “You’re trying to fluster me. News flash, honey. I don’t fluster.”

News flash. She’d just flustered him. Serious Bailey tugged at his heart, made him want to help and protect her. This Bailey, looking so happy and carefree, and incredibly beautiful, sent his pulse rushing in his ears.

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