Slate turbos us toward a burnt-out farmhouse where he squeals to a stop. “Go. Take cover.”
We jump in the cellar hole, the jeep explodes, and the shock wave flattens me to the ground.
Surrounded and pinned down, I duck under plumes of smoke, then lifting my t-shirt over my nose and mouth, snap another clip in my pistol. Crouching, I swivel my head but am knocked on my butt. Shite, I took one to the shoulder and it pierced my armor.
No time to check for blood, I scramble over toward my closest team member. Slate never falters as he fires round after round. The smoke clears and the guy toting the launcher jumps off the back of the motorbike. When he shoulders his weapon, I recite a long-forgotten Hail Mary. My eyes on his trigger finger, death imminent, I freeze.
Then, his head explodes.
An unknown shooter pops a wheelie, jumps a hill, and shoots another mercenary in the gut, before skidding to a stop. Tally-ho. Our team takes out the last two bikers for the win.
Relieved, I lean back in the hole to inspect my wound, while the others greet the biker, dressed in black leather. Whoever he is, he saved our bloomin’ arses.
The riot helmet comes off, revealing a long dark ponytail, and as he walks closer, I recognize those voluptuous curves, and my jaw drops to the ground.
Landy?What the actual fuck?
Chapter 26
Landy
Lit by the dying flames of the burnt-out SUV, I park the bike by the cellar hole, and saunter to my fiancé, laying flat on his back.
“No body armor, Lanita? Christ, you could’ve been killed.” His tone reminds me of my mother and his deep scowl makes it worse.
While not expecting a brass band, a thank-you-for-saving-my-ass or even a hug would’ve been nice. I’d tell him where to shove it, but the growing noise of the overhead rotor blades precludes conversation.
After the bird lands, I turn to Suds who appears equally annoyed. “What the fuck did I do wrong?”
“Not gettin’ involved.” When the SEAL crosses his index fingers as if trying to ward off evil, I try Slate.
“Am I wrong, or did I just save your butts?”
The Patten boss scowls. “Dash asked you to stay put. You two need to work this out.”
“Are you shitting me?” As I stomp back to the motorcycle, the southern rambler races to catch up.
“See it from his point of view. You had no comm unit, no fucking vest, and no business being here.”
“But Sam-”
“Not the point, darlin’, because you’re you, and Sam is Sam. Are we good?”
“Fine.” Clearly, all the penises are going to stick together.
Frustrated beyond reason, I head back to the Airbnb and never glance behind me. All I did was help. Besides, who the fuck ties their fiancé to the bathroom and leaves them there? I’m a damn fine Marine, not some helpless Karen.
Tears burning, I arrive at my room and realize I have no credit card. My God, I’m as much a prisoner as I was in Mexico. This is unacceptable. Fuming smoke out of my ears, I call my bank, give them my credentials, and explain the situation. After speaking to a manager, I book a flight to JFK.
I may have second thoughts at the gate, but I’m too tired and angry to do a proper assessment. I’ve been kidnapped, shot at, and chained to a toilet. I want to go home.
Hours later, in front of my apartment, I’m stopped by the lawn chair brigade. Mrs. Feinstein jumps up and blocks me from entering the front door.
“He’s upstairs and from the banging and clanging, you might want to wait.”
“Well, the lease is in my name. He needs to stop being such a child.” At my outburst, her brows raise, and she pulls a tissue from her paisley moo-moo to wipe my wet eyes.
“Oh bubalah, couples have spats all the time. Apologize. Shtupp. Have oodles of makeup sex.”
