The big horse screamed, a raw, furious sound, striking out with his forelegs and crowding the man back. The bodyguard pulled a knife, slashing at him, wild and desperate, the blade glinting inches from Jet’s chest.
“No!” Blair snarled. The sound ripped from her throat. She broke from Torres, sprinting for her fallen weapon, heart hammering against her ribs as the knife flashed again. Her fingers closed around the grip just as the bodyguard lunged. She pivoted and fired. One shot. The bodyguard dropped where he stood, knife spinning uselessly from his hand as he hit the forest floor.
When she turned back to search for Torres, he was already mounted and running. Blair spun back to Jet. He was shaking, sides heaving, eyes wild, but standing. Unhurt. A wave of relief so potent it almost buckled her knees washed over her. “Good boy,” she breathed, hauling herself back into the saddle in one fluid motion. “You’re so good.”
Blair drove Jet forward again, the trees breaking apart ahead of them as Torres burst back into the open, his horse stumbling with fatigue now, panic finally clawing through his control. The forest spat them out into light. Blair closed the last yards with everything Jet had left. She rose in the stirrups, shifted her weight, and reached. Her hand locked onto Torres’s collar. She yanked.
Torres went down hard, hitting the ground with a sound that knocked the air from his lungs as two choppers, rotors kicking up more dust and debris, landed behind her. Blair dismounted on him, knee to his back, cuffs snapping around his wrists before he could draw another breath. “RCMP,” she said, her voice steady, absolute. “You’re done.”
Torres lay there, chest heaving, but the fire in his eyes was banked, replaced by the dull ash of defeat. Blair stood over him, Jet looming at her shoulder like a vengeful god. The adrenaline was a thrumming bird beating against her ribs, the exhaustion a deep, aching pull in her muscles. She had her man. This time, there was no escape.
Then she turned. Her eyes locked on an impossible Navy SEAL, his expression uncompromising as he stepped off the bird. She closed the distance, gripped the front of his vest, and hauled him close.
“You might be the best shooter I’ve ever seen,” she snapped, her own chest heaving, the words a raw mix of fury and awe. “Dangerous. Sexy. Hot.”
Breakneck just met her fire with steel. “You’re the ballsiest woman I have ever met. Dangerous. Sexy. Hot.” He stepped in, just enough that their gear brushed, his proximity a jolt of electricity. He lowered his voice so only she could hear. “You got some medieval knights in your ancestry?” he asked, his voice rough silk. “Because girl…you ride like valor’s in your blood. Like war remembers your name.”
Her breath caught, a hitch she couldn't control. He leaned closer, his eyes dragging over her face like a sniper sighting center mass. “If we weren’t on duty…surrounded by my pain-in-the-ass teammates…” His voice dropped to a near growl. “I might fucking kiss you.”
She shoved him. Not hard, but enough to feel him, enough to show she wasn’t rattled, not that rattled. “A real sniper would’ve taken the shot.” She smirked, then she stepped back, cool on the outside, but inside? She was a riot. She’d faced down armed men, raging bikers, and the disappointment of a family that measured love in trophies and silence. But Kelly “Breakneck” Gatlin? He was the most dangerous, most beautiful, most sex-dripping threat she’d ever faced, and he knew he had her.
He grinned, slow, cocky, devastating. “My goddamn focus is off, sassy.”
She walked away, not looking back, but she was listening.
From the bird, Skull leaned against the side, arms crossed, that smug bastard grin already in place. “Hey, Slick,” he drawled loud enough for Blair to hear. “How’s it feel to be out-verbalized by a delicate ballerina?”
She stopped and turned, her hands going to her hips. Oh, he was about to get razzed, and she wasn’t leaving.
Hazard chuckled. “She danced all over your ass, man. That was brutal. Graceful, but brutal.”
Boomer shifted. “Somebody pass the popcorn. Our resident smartass just met his match.”
Preacher, deadpan, added, “In the beginning was the word, and the word kicked his cocky sniper ass.”
Breakneck just stood there, jaw clenched, arms crossed, watching Blair with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “You finished?” he asked, voice bone-dry.
Skull shook his head. “Not even close. We’re just getting warmed up, Shakespeare.”
Boomer chuckled. “Careful, she might write a sonnet about how bad you got burned.”
Breakneck muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Fuck all of you” under his breath.
Hazard grinned. “See? He’s already inspired.”
“Wait. Goddammit.” She turned, unable to resist. His eyes raked over her.
Breakneck was still staring at her when Iceman said, not even breaking stride as he approached the group. “You might need some help from those famous Wranglers, Junior.”
Breakneck’s brow twitched. “What?”
Iceman folded his arms, calm as ever. “To rein her in.” He looked at Blair. “Or hold on when she rides you like a stolen Mustang.”
Boomer choked. Skull howled. Hazard wheezed, “Permission to die, Master Chief?”
Iceman just climbed into the chopper, unbothered. “Better get a grip, boys. This one’s about to be bucked bareback through his feelings.”
Blair watched him, and she backed up a step as that fire flared in Breakneck’s eyes. He shoved his long gun into Skull’s gut, the man’s “oof” audible. “Take care of that for me,” he growled.
