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  By feel, I clutch my mace inside my purse and jerk it from the special pocket.

  I open my mouth and scream in a ringing voice, “Fire!”

  Heads swivel in our direction. People who didn't notice Calem screaming and a woman sparring with a man finally turn to find a huge guy looming before me, mace in my hand, and a young child with me as two huge bikers approach. I’m sure the visual is eye-catching.

  I stay out of easy-striking distance, eyeballing the biker’s dangling rope. “Back up.” My voice is calm, confident my alert of “fire” will bring the bystanders I need. The ploy is hugely successful for a small female with a child to protect and only her wits to do it with. It's a proven fact people respond more quickly to a scream of “fire” rather than “help.” Not everyone wants to help. But they sure like to see.

  I rapidly consider my options.

  On my own, I can do a flat-out sprint for three-quarters mile. Most people, men and women, would be hard-pressed to catch me. Can't escape with a kid, though.

  My eyes quickly assess the two approaching bikers. One of them has crazy-kinky hair that's a reddish-gold and a deep fire-engine red beard. He has my murder in his eyes.

  Lunatic.

  The other man is quiet. Like cool water seeping steadily to my position. Maybe ten years older than me, he has a solid build of five feet eleven or so. He’s also determined. Hard.

  I need to get the fuck out of here. I back away and let the advancing bystanders take care of this shitstorm that's brewing.

  A crowd gathers, facilitating my cause, and Calem is mercifully full of tears instead of words. A hysterical kid would be more damage than even I can contain.

  “I don't know what they want,” I say in a clear tearful voice, eyes shifting to the MC trio. I just remember my dad coming to my bedroom, and it's all the memories I need to produce the hot flood of tears.

  Works beautifully, every time.

  “Me and my baby,” I say, piling on the common endearment for authenticity, “we were just playing in the park and these men—”

  All eyes go to them.

  “Threatened us,” I say on a slightly wet-sounding endnote. My words are saturated by tears as I meld into the crowd.

  They part like the Red Sea, allowing the innocent through while their critical gaze goes back to the bikers.

  Exactly where I want the focus.

  Perfect. My eyes dry, and the warm breeze of a dying summer steals the wetness on my cheeks.

  One pair of pale blue eyes never leave me, though.

  I turn, feeling that gaze burning into my back as I weave between benches, water fountains, and eventually, to my car.

  That look held so many things—too many to decipher—but one part was pretty clear for interpretation: I'll be seeing you.

  I had no trouble discerning that unspoken promise. And Candice Arlington fears no one.

  But maybe I've met the first man to scare me since... my own father.

  Chapter 3

  Viper

  I keep my shit under wraps—barely.

  Noose convinced me he would be great as the stand-in. Since I'm a behind-the-scenes-guy, I agreed.

  I didn't trust Storm not to beat the fuck out of Arlington.

  As it turns out, that didn't matter much.

  She took down Noose like felling a mighty tree.

  But the day sure didn't begin like that.

  *

  “Got her.” Noose passes binoculars to me.

  I press the bar against my forehead, and though I need readers like some old fucker at night, I see pretty well during the day.

  My eyes take in the park, and I know when I've made her.

  God, she's a tiny thing.

  Guilt swamps me, followed closely by my old friend, anger.

  All it takes is the vision of that innocent little boy clinging trustingly to her hand, and my mind hardens right up.

  I had a wife. I’ve been with a lot of women.

  Loved my wife's guts. Passed the time fucking other females after she was gone. But my heart remains under lock and key. I never told anyone, but losing Colleen about killed me, just as sure as a gunshot to the chest.

  I brace my mind against the memories that flood me. I won't accept them. Not now. I try never to think about Colleen. Never visit her grave. Might just lay there and starve to death if I do.

  I manage. Mostly.

  Tramping down on my emotional shit that came from nowhere, I take in the woman.

  Got that she's thirty-seven, on paper. She looks about twenty-nine in person.

  I zoom in with the binoculars, taking in her face close-up, as close as the magnification will allow.

  Nope. I squint. The eyes are the right age. Hard. Jaded. Sad.

  I yank my head back then look again. Holy fuck, of course she's sad. Trafficking little kids has got to take its toll, even for a miserable broad like her.

  My eyes sweep her form. Goddamn do I not want to hurt a female. My attention shifts to the boy looking up at her like she's the end-all, do-all.

  Steel fills me. Got to.

  I hand the binoculars back to Noose.

  “It's her,” Storm says, being quiet for once. “I'd know that face anywhere.”

  Noose looks at the two of us. “We grab the bitch then drop off the kid at the police station.”

  I nod. The boy'll be safe. Arlington won't be.

  My mind's already sifting through what we'll have to do to make her talk.

  Road Kill MC has a spot for torture, like a lot of clubs have, with a concrete floor and a drain in the center.

  I close my eyes against the images.

  Storm probably has the same set of visuals running through his brain, but his eyes are open, feasting on Arlington.

  She's on a last-name-only basis. I'm already distancing myself from my future actions. Most willingly.

  “I'll give the signal when I'm ready,” Noose says, opening the door of our club POS truck. I close my door. It’s primer gray, but the rest of the truck is dull red with a chaser of rust like lace at all the edges.

  I start walking.

  We know Arlington's on the other side of the knoll at the top of the hill.

  Noose jogs to where the meeting point will be and tosses himself on the bench mere seconds before Arlington walks up the steepish incline.

  I know when she spots him.

  She hesitates, as if glaringly unsure.

  Come on... come on.

  After a few seconds, Arlington keeps walking.

  Good.

  The kid must say something because she sinks to her haunches, tucking her skirt behind her knees in a ladylike gesture that makes my jaw clench.

  Ladylike, my ass.

  More like lady pimp.

  My lips lift in a disdainful sneer, and Storm echoes my thoughts.

  “Pretending snatch,” he grits.

  I turn to him in profile. “Lots of hate,” I say, though he's not wrong.

  “Fuck yes,” he grates out.

  Might have to flesh out what the hell's made Storm so rage-filled toward the fairer sex. Better to know what kind of brothers I've got, like identifying the arrows in my quiver. Don't want to shoot blind.

  Seeing the loathing in Storm's eyes as he watches Arlington, I realize that having knowledge might be better sooner than later.

  I give a slight shake of my head. Shouldn't have brought Storm. Too volatile.

  Too late now, ya dumb fuck.

  With sour resignation, I turn back to Arlington. She exchanges a few words with the boy as she squats before him.

  The boy says something then jumps up and down excitedly, screaming a word I can't quite make out.

  Storm does, though. His deep-red brows draw together. “Puck?”

  I shake my head, not making any surface connection, though some niggling memory bites at the edges of my mind.

  Then she's standing, and our attention is where it should be—on the mark.

  *


  Noose isn't worried about his plan. He'll sideswipe Arlington in the temple, exerting just the right amount of force. Then it’s lights out for the lady flesh-trafficking enabler.

  When I asked if he could kill Arlington by hitting her too hard, a slow, shit-eating grin spread across his hard face, obscured by his incessant smoke ring fixation.

  “Nope, Vipe. This, I got. I could do it to a baby and not hurt ʼim.”

  I frown, giving him the look the comment deserved, then whip my finger toward the knotted end that's half the size of my closed fist. “You're talking about hitting a baby with that?” As I think of Noose’s infant twins, my frown turns into a disbelieving scowl.

  Noose rolls his eyes, waving away the rings, breaking them into uncoiled smoke.

  “Fuck no, you're so fucking literal. I'm just sayinʼ—I got that much finesse. Don't worry. I won't kill the bitch. That negates getting the info, eh?”

  I nod. Sure does.

  When Noose extracts the rope, I hold my breath. Right then, I realize, belatedly, I don't want to kill Candice Arlington. It's in that crystalizing moment before violence, I commit to the atrocity of torture to save kids, but I'm not sure I have the balls to finish her.

  I fight not to look at Storm.

  He could finish her. But he would do it for the wrong reasons. Reasons I don't yet understand the motivation for.

  Remembering our earlier conversation, I watch the reality unwind before me like a bad movie.

  Noose is like a cat, leaning forward and swinging the end of the rope like an extension of his own arm.

  But it doesn't land.

  Arlington's already dropped low, shoving the boy onto the grass on his butt.

  She sort of throws herself backward, flattening her palms against the pathway like she's ready to play Twister. Bringing her foot up, Arlington turns it sideways at the last moment, plowing her instep into Noose's knee.

  He howls then goes down.

  “Fuck me running.” Storm's voice is breathy with surprise as he begins to rise.

  I stand from where we've been sitting in plain sight of the park bench where everything just went pear shaped.

  “Plan B,” I announce.

  Storm's brows come together. “What's that?”

  “I'll make it up as I go along.” I toss over my shoulder, but I'm already striding toward them.

  Storm doesn't have any problem catching up. Young and tall, he matches my stride as we nearly jog to where Candice Arlington puts the moves on Noose.

  We lurch to a halt when she yells, “Fire!” her feminine voice ringing like birdsong.

  Holy shit. My head whips around, and everyone who hadn't noticed the mess going down does now.

  People start milling toward Arlington. A couple of industrious-looking guys are jogging.

  Fuck.

  We stop with only feet separating us as she cries for all she's worth, having extracted a can of mace like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

  Christ on a crutch. Could this get any worse?

  It does.

  Noose finally stands and limps toward her. Persistent fucker, I think with an almost fatherly pride then squelch it.

  First things first—we got to survive this bit of chaos.

  Candice Arlington is much more than she seems.

  She says all the words right, relentlessly backing away and through the gathering crowd.

  I watch her escape—with the boy.

  My eyes mark her, willing her to turn and see the silent message I’m sending:

  I'm coming for you.

  Arlington doesn't hesitate when she interprets my clear, unspoken message. She spins in the opposite direction, her spine stiffening as she hurries away with the boy as though she still feels the weight of my gaze burning at her.

  Through her.

  *

  “That is beyond fucked up,” Storm comments unnecessarily.

  I give him a look, telling him to shut up.

  Noose pants through his mouth. “Fucking dislocated. That bitch knew exactly what she was doing.”

  “I like that she subdued you,” Storm says, continuing his unhelpful and suicidal commentary.

  “Shut. The. Absolute. Fuck. Up,” Noose grits.

  Finally, merciful silence fills the truck as I race to the club in the hopes Doc can patch him up.

  “That was sheer buffoonery,” I say, almost to myself. “With a healthy dose of arrogance.” We fucked up, no doubt. And we made ourselves and the club in the process. Every advantage of time and surprise is gone.

  Noose shakes his head. “Remember all those holes in her timeline I was jawinʼ about earlier?” he says through clenched teeth, holding on to his messed-up knee like a lifeline.

  “Yup,” I say, tramping the accelerator.

  “Found out what one of them is.”

  Storm folds his arms across his chest. He's prison-yard strong, muscles on top of muscles. But he works his legs too, an unusual feature in men who lift for size. They get so set on looking huge on top, they miss the legs. Storm doesn't, so he's just that massive.

  “What?” he asks, still surly from being shut down.

  “She's got martial arts training. Instinctive. Shouldn't have known what the knotted rope meant. Did.” Noose's jaw's clamped tight. He doesn't open his mouth but continues talking through his teeth. “Somehow, Arlington knows weapons, and not just the obvious shit.”

  Not just another pretty face.

  “Who could know you'd tag her ass with a rope? I mean, hell”—Storm reties his hair, more for something to do with his fingers than actual need—“I'd think you might strangle me.” He grunts. “But I'd never see a rope as a bludgeoning tool.”

  Knot training was just beginning as my tour ended in the ’90s. I know knives and hand-to-hand combat. Hell, guns are like second nature. But rope manipulation escapes me. Came too late to that game. Now there're entire units in the Navy trained with just that, while knives are left to other SEAL units. The whole tamale is precisely specialized these days.

  “She'll see us coming a mile away. Gave up the club. Gave up everything. Arlington is cautious and dangerous. Fuck,” Noose seethes.

  “We'll have to make a play for her tonight,” Storm announces.

  “Agreed.”

  That's if we're not already blown, and she's told the powers that be... everything.

  “Grab her at her place, then she'll sing.”

  I glance at Storm, then Noose and I exchange a glance. His expression clearly tells me Storm shouldn't be seeing to any of this.

  I hear that—I got him.

  Noose is too solid to question my authority in front of Storm. He'll let me do my own thinking, and I love the man for it.

  Noose may be rough, but he's smart and a great male to have at my back.

  We pull up to the club after what seems like years to get there. I shut off the truck and hop out. As Storm puts Noose’s arm around his neck, and I jog around the truck and scoot in underneath the arm on the other side. Noose is tall, has me by four inches plus, but Storm is nearly as tall as Noose, and between us, we half drag him inside.

  We walk into the club, and Crystal is the first one to spot us. Of course. I bite back a groan and keep moving.

  She makes a wide berth around Storm and beelines it for Noose. She's had a wet clit for him since day one.

  It's a miracle Rose hasn't killed her. She doesn't have to worry, though. Noose has had more pussy than a man can plow, and he's only got eyes for Rose.

  But Crystal's a determined sweet butt—I'll give her that.

  “Ooh, baby, what happened?” She oozes her false charm.

  Noose's pale irises flick to her then away. “Beat it,” he says without rancor.

  She pouts, not really put off. Crystal's received harsher words than those. She mostly ignores him and trots after us as we make our way to Doc's room.

  He's got the double golden arches on the door. At least, that's what they appear to be. A red
rectangle is dead center on the solid steel, with two, golden arches spread in the middle.

  Upon closer inspection, the “arches” that parody the famous burger chain are actually the silhouetted legs of a woman wearing high heels.

  Underneath the “legs,” in small lettering the caption reads Lovinʼ It.

  Doc's got a sense of humor.

  He’s probably browsing porn on the internet as we get ready to blast in there.

  Old perv. I chuckle to myself and hit the lever with one hand, opening the door.

  There's Doc, nose to the computer screen. His head pops up, and two eyes, slightly buggy from the magnification of his specs, regard us without surprise.

  His gaze scans Noose hanging between us, and he issues a close-mouthed harrumph as he stands.

  Noose gives a small flutter of fingers and promptly passes out.

  Marvelous.

  Chapter 4

  Candice

  I attempt to flatten my heart rate, going into auto-Zen mode, deep breathing, the whole routine.

  My palms are sweaty on the steering wheel, dampening the faux leather cover wrap the car came with.

  “Miss Candi?” Calem sniffs, and I fight to keep my eyes on the road.

  “Yes, Calem.”

  “Was that man the bad man?”

  Hell yes. “Yes,” I say automatically. He was definitely bad. Ex-SEALs, expert-knotter bad.

  There's no way that I'd ever escape him again. I'm a trained expert in hand-to-hand combat and two forms of martial arts, and most weaponry is practically an extension of the part of my body that wields it.

  I give a soft snort. Never had a way with ropes and knots, though.

  I knew it was coming into vogue as an assassination technique, though I always felt it was messy and a handy way to leave DNA behind.

  Knives, on the other hand, are nice and quiet. Gloves mean there’s no easy way to trace to the assailant.

  I blink long and hard, squeezing my eyes shut as long as I dare. Thinking about weaponry is a safe distraction from what's just happened. I needed it.

  The simple thoughts regurgitating inside my mind calms me.

  When my breathing is finally under control, I say, “He was the wrong bad man.”

  My periphery catches sight of Calem turning his head, studying me in profile as I steadfastly maintain my speed. I'm not worried about being found quickly. I changed my license plates ten minutes ago. I have an entire billfold of plates inside the trunk. Thank God Calem is a cooperative boy and didn't melt down into a puddle of incoherent babble and delay our escape at Gasworks Park.