The taller one laughed. “You shouldn’t have come, detective. Leave us alone and we won’t bother anyone.”
Everything happened fast after that—Hawk lunged, kicking the rifle barrel up. I dove behind a crate as a shot cracked the air. Wood splintered beside my head. I returned fire, hitting one man in the shoulder. The other bolted toward the back tunnel.
Hawk grabbed my wrist. “We have to go. There’ll be more.”
We sprinted for the exit, bullets echoing off the metal walls. Outside, the sky had turned dark, and thunder rumbled in the distance. We ducked behind the truck, breathless.
He looked at me, eyes blazing. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I panted. “You?”
He grinned. “Never better.”
The adrenaline crashed, and suddenly I realized how close he was—his chest brushing mine, his hand still gripping my arm. The air between us felt electric.
“Next time,” I whispered, “we do things my way.”
He smiled, that slow, dangerous smile that made my heart race. “As long as your way keeps us alive. Hawk drove my vehicle away from the tunnel.
The storm broke then, rain pounding on the truck roof, lightning flashing over his face. He reached out, pushing a wet strand of hair from my eyes.
“You’re soaked,” he said softly.
“So are you.”
“Guess we’ll have to dry off somehow.”
Before I could answer, he leaned in and kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle—it was raw, and desperate, the kind of kiss that comes after a near-death moment and years of wanting.
When we finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against mine. “That’s been a long time coming, Detective.”
“Fifteen years,” I whispered.
Back at the station,we reported the shootout, but neither of us mentioned the kiss. That was ours.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the cartel knew we were coming. Someone had tipped them off again.
And tomorrow, I planned to find out who.
120
Hawk
The bell over the diner door jingled as I stepped inside, shaking rain from my jacket. It smelled like bacon grease, coffee, and nostalgia—exactly like it always had. Copper Cove’s only diner hadn’t changed since high school. Same cracked red booths. Possibly the same waitress with too much eyeliner.
What had changed was the group of men sitting in the back corner, nursing mugs of coffee and looking like they could take on an army.
Logan Carter was the first to spot me. He grinned and stood, pulling me into a quick hug. “Well, hell, look who finally called for backup.”
Boone Grant leaned back in his chair, one arm slung casually over the booth. “Backup? You said this was a vacation.”
Russ Duncan snorted. “It’s Hawk Jensen. The man doesn’t know how to take a vacation.”
I dropped into the seat beside them, shaking my head. “I didn’t call for backup. I just told Logan what was going on. The rest of you volunteered.”
“Semantics,” Logan said, grinning. “You saidcartel activityandfamily danger. That’s practically an invitation.”
