Page 20 of Striker

No, this isn't an ordinary weapon.

Nor is the man working on it an ordinary civilian; he breaks it down with the practiced motions of someone who lives to kill.

My choice is clear.

I owe my life to Smokey; Smokey wants me to guard his sister; his sister's intent on staying at this death-trap of a wedding; I'm staying.

I march back to the room, rip a pillow from the bed and a spare coat from my suitcase, and toss them both on the floor next to the bed. It’s not pretty, but it’ll do.

"What the hell are you doing?" She says.

"I'm staying. I’m not leaving you here alone."

"I'd really hoped you'd decide differently, Owen. You’re making a big mistake."

"This is the only choice I can make, Dani. I owe it to you and to Dixon to keep you safe. I'm staying. There’s no other way."

Dani looks at me with icy determination, her eyes cold in the way that I've only seen in soldiers about to step into the heat of battle.

"You're going to regret this, Owen O’Connell."

Chapter Seven

Danielle

"Regret it? I'm going to regret it?" Owen says, repeating it both as if he misheard and as if he's taking it as a challenge. "That sounds like a threat."

He's about to learn I don't make idle threats. You can't when you grow up with Dixon Green. You have to follow through. But this isn’t just a threat.

This is war.

"You heard me," I say, defiant, disrespectful, daring. "Since we'll be rooming together, thanks to your brilliantly stupid decision, I might as well get started on unpacking."

"Sounds like a good idea," Owen says, using exactly the same tone as if I told him I wanted to use my life savings to open a Blockbuster Video franchise. "We'll be sharing this room for a weekend, so you might as well get comfortable."

I take my suitcase and set it on the bed, then I cast my eyes about the room, looking for just the right place to put my things. I can see that Owen's already nearly finished with his unpacking — all his clothes, perfectly folded with military precision, sit in orderly rows stacked inside one of the open drawers of the room's two dressers; one for him, one for me.

Logically, that would be the best place for me to put my clothes.

Naturally, I take a pair of panties out of my suitcase and hurl it at the ceiling, the lacy thong landing delicately to hang from one of the room's two chandeliers.

"What the hell are you doing, Dani?" Owen says through clenched teeth.

"Unpacking. What does it look like?" I answer with the sweetest smile and then I throw one of my bras to land on a lampshade.

"You're making a mess."

"Oh, does this bother you, Mr. Orderly? I thought Marines could handle a little disorder."

No sooner do the words leave my mouth than I reach into my suitcase, grab a fistful of shirts, a pair of shorts, and three pairs of socks, and cast them in the air into a gigantic cloud. They scatter and land in little piles throughout the room.

"You're acting like a child."

"I am not acting like a child. I'm unpacking," I say as I throw another pair of my panties onto the chandelier. I have no clue how I'll get them down later, but that's not the point — the point is to drive Owen away so that he and his rugged, muscular body don't distract me from my mission of helping Morgan and Riley get out of this wedding. If that means I have to go commando a day or two, then so be it. "Which, by the way, unpacking is tough work. I wonder what they have to eat and drink in here?"

"Dani, this isn't a dorm room. And I’m not your maid. Can we at least agree to keep underwear off the chandeliers?” Owen's voice shakes with the immense effort of remaining calm.

Which means he still has a shred of patience left.

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