Run. Live.
CHAPTER TWO
Four Years Ago
Doc
I reachfor the glass of whiskey, but a massive hand snatches it away.
“What the fuck?” I'm drunk enough not to care that the guy towering over me is the size of a mountain. My punch sails past his bald, scarred head. I lose my balance, the barstool crashes to the ground, and my ass hits the sticky floor a second later.
By the time I lurch to my feet, the fucker's drained the last of my drink. A wad of bills lands on the bar top. “He's cut off. Permanently.”
“Whaa...? Who you do think are—goddammit. Whodo youthinkyouare?” I slur. Trying a different tactic, I slap my hands against his chest in a futile attempt to get him the hell out of my way.
He reaches for a thermos sitting on the bar and slides it in front of me. “Coffee. Drink it, and we'll talk.”
“Shove it up your ass and I'll go back to my whiskey a happy man.”
In the dim lights of Slade's—one of the sleezier pubs at the edge of downtown—the hulking man is nothing but scars and shadows, dressed all in black, his long-sleeved t-shirt straining over muscles that belong in a steroid ad. Cold eyes peer down at me. I must be worse off than I thought. I can't tell what color they are. Blue? Green? Hazel?
I blink hard, waiting for him to say something. Or deck me. He's angry enough. But he merely crosses his arms over his chest and waits.
“I don't care how big you are, asshole. I was Air Force Pararescue. You want a fight, I'll give you one.”
He snorts. “I did ten years in the Special Forces, Fly Boy. And any PJ worth their salt knows size doesn't mean shit in a fight. Sobriety, on the other hand...”
“I'm not that drunk.”
“Bullshit.” Special Forces plucks the thermos from the bar and jerks his head toward the door. “You want to test me? Come on. I’ll humor you. But we're not doing it in here. Even if this placewouldlook better with some...redecorating.”
The bartender extends his middle finger at the man, who returns the gesture with an honest-to-God growl before heading for the door.
Iamdrunk enough to follow him, though the voice in my head knows it's a mistake. I'll be lucky to walk away with my life. Or the use of my legs. But my pride won’t let me ignore the asshole.
Outside, purple streaks paint the sky. Summer days in Seattle last forever, but the sun's close to the horizon. Shit. I hadn't realized how late it was. I started drinking at five.
“I didn't pay my tab...”
“It's closed,” the man says. With a flick of his fingers, he sends my credit card tumbling to the ground at my feet. “You're welcome.”
Lunging for him, I almost manage to brush his arm before he sidesteps me with the grace of a dancer. My knees slam into the asphalt. “Goddammit.”
“We can stop any time, Doc.”
Doc?
“How do you know I'm a doctor?”
The guy's rough laugh grates on me. “I know everything about you. Even the name your parents gave you. The one you paid to have erased from all your government records.” He offers me his hand, and I stare at it for a long moment before he shakes his head, grabs my elbow, and hauls me up.
“You were born Ga?—”
“Don’t say it, asshole,” I snap. “No one’s called me…that…in twenty years.”
“Have it your way. Doc. You graduated from the University of Michigan Ann Arbor Medical School at twenty-four. But rather than residency, you opted for the Air Force. Probably because your grandfather was a career fly boy and he passed away in your fourth year.
"After Basic, you fought your way right into the Pipeline. Made it through on your first try. Impressive. A year into your third re-enlistment, you were shot down over the Al-Faw peninsula trying to save a frogman with altitude sickness. The docs were convinced you’d spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair, but you proved them wrong when youwalkedout of Walter Reed two months later without even a cane. How am I doing so far?”
