Page 32 of Heston
And like a sucker fresh out of high school, she’d believed him.
Lies! All lies!
The second she’d unlocked her camper door, he’d shoved his way in, slapped her hard across her face, then punched her belly and disarmed her. Now there she was, draped over his shoulder, trying to catch her breath, on her way to who knew where. And mad as hell!
Bates had taken her pistol. Who was the idiot now? She’d assumed he was a decent human being—her mistake. But he’d assumed she only carried one weapon. Stupid, stupid man.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, framing the question within weak, feminine, I-am-so-so-helpless bimbo-speak. If she’d been upright, she would’ve fanned her face and fluttered her eyelashes.
“Where you belong. Where a know-it-all like you will never be found.” He slapped her backside and spat, “Bitch!”
Strike two, Bates. Maybe strikes three and four, also.
Her parka was still on, her now empty holster beneath it. He knew she carried, but she’d never told him about the stiletto tucked into the thinnest sheath strapped to the inside of her right forearm. Why would she? Most guys focused on the obvious. Most criminals did, too. Pretty women all had to be brainless. Especially the ones smart enough to master careers and outperform men. Not that all men were shallow, opinionated, or as egotistical as Bates. But guys like him usually overcame those weaker than them by brute force. They name-called and belittled their employees, in this case—her—his soon-to-be victim.
And lastly, but bestly—gosh, is that even a word?—they overestimated themselves. Just by the things dangling between their legs, they thought they were better, smarter, and stronger than women, right?
Wrong. Big mistake. She’d practiced hours with that still hidden blade. Throwing it, hitting her paper targets. Trying over and over to hit them just right every time. Slicing and dicing, chipping and stabbing. Parries and thrusts in close quarters. She’d taken a private class taught by a tough old Army major who’d been in the first Desert Storm. Best self-defense class ever. Not even the FBI had taught her what she knew now. To stand up for herself when it counted. To surprise her opponent, not by sheer force, but by cunning. By waiting. By delivering the unseen, unexpected strike. What she didn’t have in weight or muscles, she made up for with speed and brains.
Going for a dramatic, girly effect, she let herself go limp. Dangled her arms and let her hands flop against the back of his thighs. She needed him complacent, over-confident, and sure of himself. Bates wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t have been promoted if he were. But he was a guy, and she was ‘just’ a woman. Awoman who planned to use that opinionated weakness against him soon. Really soon. Just. Not. Yet…
Heston ran back to London’s camper, saw the door swinging open, and froze in his tracks. He quartered the scene behind her rig. Most campsites were empty. The weather was too cold for most to stay. There were no campers in sight. His heart pounded in his ears. Where was she? Who the hell took her? Had Malloy? Was the sniper hide just a decoy? A distraction?
Rolling his neck, Heston measured the facts against his assumptions—and went with his gut. Whoever’d taken London was part of the plan to end the Stewarts. Had to be. The sniper who’d nicked the side of Kelsey’s head was in the damned tree that, even now, Asher was targeting. Heston could almost see Asher climbing the pine, hand by hand, toehold by toehold, his knife in his teeth as he dodged those sturdy boughs. Asher preferred wet work. Well, good. Let him carve that Irish bastard to the bone.
Heston inhaled a slow breath through his pursed lips and decided to follow the river. He ran faster. Quieter. Lined with dense undergrowth like it was, no one would notice a body dressed in black winter gear tossing within the rapids. If that was where London had been taken, she’d vanish among the foam and shadows within seconds. It made sense to dispose of a body there. There’d been no shot. Nothing after that single scream.
Which meant hurry, damn it.Get there now! Save her.He meant to approach quietly, but quiet be damned. He had to reach her before she died! Before whoever had her killed her!Faster, Hes! Pump those damned glutes, quads, hamstrings, and calf muscles. Hurry!
By the time he was at the water’s edge, he was sweating, but his senses were wide open, flared to detect her fierce Amazonian spirit and the stink of her chicken shit assailant.Protect and serve, London,he whispered.By God, I know you won’t like me protecting you because you think you can handle anything. I know you’re a damned strong woman, but there are things you don’t know and have never done. I can’t live without you!
There. Farther down the bank. A hefty male. Long stride. Determined stride. Marching away from Heston’s position like he was on a mission. A limp body in black slung over his shoulder. Bates! With London! He was headed for Owyhigh Lakes (pronounced O-Y-high). The bastard meant to drown her in one of those two lakes. Which were frozen. Want to bet he’d already cut a hole in the ice?
Heston beelined for the bastard. It was clear London was badly hurt, maybe worse. Her arms slapped helplessly against the back of his legs. The ass! He closed in on the pair, pissed and ready to kill, when inexplicably, London’s right arm lifted behind her shoulder. Oh, my hell. She had a small knife. A thin blade and—
Relief puffed out of Heston in a cloud of vapor. He stopped worrying and watched her work some pretty fast magic. With one wicked slash, she stabbed Bates’ hamstring. An explosive roar bellowed out of him. Side-stepping and off-balance, he threw her to the ground, grabbed the bloody back of his thigh, and screamed, “You gawddamned bitch! You cut me!”
London landed on her butt, but scrambled quickly to her feet, one palm on the ground, her knife in the other, poised magnificently for battle. Heston couldn’t hear her speak, wasn’t sure she said anything. Looked more like an Old West stand-off between his silent but bold and beautiful lioness, and thehowling hyena thrashing at her feet. Bates might’ve gotten a few licks in, but she’d drawn first blood, and Heston was proud of his woman.
He cocked his head, not sure if he should assist London in this very personal battle or not. She had everything under control. Damn, look at her. Powerful. Beautiful. Armed and, yeah, dangerous. Also kind of scary that the sweet woman he’d once made love with, the one who giggled and moaned when she’d come all over his fingers and mouth, was now poised like an avenging angel with a blood-stained sword of justice twitching at her fingertips.
Heston walked quietly to her side. She lowered her head and shot him a sideways wink through her jewel-toned locks, the tease. She was enjoying this victory, this moment of comeuppance. And man, did Bates have it coming.
Another highly-pitched, male scream pierced the forest behind Heston, but he didn’t turn around, didn’t wonder. Guess Asher’d breached the sniper hide and whoever he’d caught by surprise was now being taken care of. Asher promised Alex a trophy. Heston hoped Asher brought a bag for that.
“We need him alive,” Heston told London conversationally.
“I know,” she agreed easily. “That’s why I didn’t stab his kidneys. Too messy. I didn’t want that shit-heel’s blood in my hair.”
Made Heston smile. He shrugged at her like what happened with Bates was no big deal. Which it wasn’t. This was her kill. A fellow soldier respected that. “None of my business then. Let me know when you’re done playing. I’ll be—”
“You’re not leaving me alone with this bitch!” Bates yelled. “She’ll kill me.”
“She should,” Hes said as he crouched onto the mossy ground, dropped his hands between his knees, and prepared to wait on London’s decision. “You started this when you took herfrom her rig. What’d you do, knock like a gentleman, then slap her around once she was kind enough to let you inside?”
“Something like that,” Bates grumbled.
“Punched, Hes. This asshole punched me, damned near knocked my teeth out.” She spat to the side, then licked a circle around her pink, wet lips. “He took my pistol!”
