“Yeah, Jam. You told me.”
Jam’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Had more than fifty kills to my name. So what the hell’s one more, you know?”
“This is different.”
“Different? Ya think? I was one of the good guys back then. Here? Here, I’m just a one-percenter. Just a fuckin’ outlaw.”
“You could change that. You don’t want to do this, man.”
“No!” He shouted. “’Course I don’t wanna do this, but what choice are you givin’ me? I won’t go to prison, man. I can’t do it. I’ve killed before, and I’ll fuckin’ do it again if I have to.” He raised the weapon and aimed it straight at Clay’s head. A kill shot, especially this close.
Clay opened his mouth to say something, anything to stop the guy, but before he could get out the words, the shot rang out—deafening in the enclosed kitchen.
For a surreal instant, Clay thought he’d been shot again. But he knew how it felt, and this painless normality wasn’t it.
Slowly, things came into focus: Jam, propelled backward, but still holding on to the .38. By the door stood a woman, her weapon raised—a snub-nosed revolver—and behind her, George, white as a sheet, eyes only for him.
Everything was quiet. That hollow vacuum a gunshot left in its wake. He’d felt it last time, almost stronger than the impact initially.
“Don’t move,” she said in a no-nonsense tone of voice.
“You Jessie?” Clay said.
“Yeah.”
Jam moved, and she shot him again, in the arm this time. It sent his gun flying.
From the front door, behind the women, came the instantly recognizable shout of law enforcement arriving on the scene. Clay watched, ears ringing as Jessie threw her hands up. He shouted, “Back here.”
Suddenly, the room was swarming with Blackwood Sheriff’s Department deputies, their dark uniforms filling up the spaces. Taking over.
Taking over so Clay could let go.
Fuck, it was crazy how quickly the adrenaline drained away when you no longer needed it. Like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz, Clay felt boneless, like he could slide to the floor, skeleton liquid. Just one thing kept him up. His gaze searched the controlled chaos and noise of the room.
George.
He met her eyes, and when she smiled, Clay’s bruised heart cracked wide open.
* * *
There was something desperate in Clay. George could tell as soon as he touched her. Those rough fighter’s hands grasped her face, hard, and he kissed her even harder.
And, oh Lord, that kiss, after all the certainty of death, was like getting a second chance. It was a second chance for him.
She leaned in to whisper, “You okay?”
He huffed a breath onto her lips but didn’t answer right away.
“Now that I got you, yeah.”
“Sorry to interrupt.” That was the sheriff, Steve Mullen, standing a couple of steps away. “I got quite the crime scene here. Just need a word, Special Agent Navarro.”
Clay nodded, gave George’s hand one last squeeze, and moved a few steps away.
She watched, not even tempted to help as EMTs arrived and took three men away. Outside, there was some kind of manhunt going on. The one outside had gotten away.
She watched as her home was ransacked—in an impressively orderly fashion and for only the best reasons—and caught snippets of conversations. They hadn’t called in the feds, apparently, although Clay stuck around. Watching him become official and totally in his element was really lovely to behold. And hot. Totally hot, the way he suddenly took charge and called out orders.
