His enemies would think he was weak. They’d underestimate him. That was exactly what he wanted.
One called to Nash, “Hey, bastard! Guess what you’re gonna get to do?”
Slowly, deliberately stumbling, he turned toward the men. Two men in the doorway.
“Boss wants you to dig your own grave.” He tossed a shovel at Nash’s feet.
A shovel.
Seriously?
Nash had been thinking he’d have to use his belt to strangle these morons, and then they go and throw a shiny weapon at his feet. Weren’t they the generous idiots? He bent to scoop up his new, precious gift.
“No, no! Do not kill Nash!” Delaney’s desperate cry. “I want to see Kurt! I want to talk to him—Nash can’t die!”
She loves me. It was hard not to be freaking shouting with joy, but he had a job to do. He picked up that shovel, making sure to look nice and weak and injured as he did so. The fact that his blood kept drop, drop, dropping around him really helped set the scene. For just a moment, though, his head turned toward her. Trust me. He mouthed those words to Delaney.
One of the bastards bellowed, “Get your ass out here! And start digging!”
He shuffled toward the door. Delaney stayed behind him. When he got outside, more darkness waited. A million stars glittering overhead. But he didn’t really care about the stars. His focus was on the men who thought they were going to bury him.
The two perps who’d come into the shed. A third man who stood near the front of a dark Lexus, and…
“Well, well,” Nash muttered as his grip tightened on the shovel. “I did not think I’d see you again.”
And the motel clerk who’d sold him and Delaney out to Kurt Wellington ambled toward him. Beneath the glow of the moon and the stars, Nash could see that the kid’s face was swollen and bruised. Nash grunted. “You look like you got the hell beaten out of you.”
The kid surveyed him. “Same, man. Same.” He whistled. His hands were shoved into the baggy pockets of his pants. “This is not personal. Like, it’s about survival, you know? I am all about my own survival.” He pulled out a knife. He pointed that knife at Delaney. “I’m gonna need you to come here, lady.”
Oh, hell, no.
“I have a job to do,” the kid continued. But he wasn’t really a kid, was he?
“Tell me your name.” Nash maintained his hold on the shovel.
“You’re about to be dead, man,” the guy told him. “Why does my name matter?”
“It matters.” Then, deliberately, he said, “Trust me.” But those two words weren’t for the little creep who should not have been there. They were for Delaney. His signal that he was about to attack and that she was not to get anywhere near that jerk.
“Charlie,” the punk mumbled. “Name’s Charlie.” He gestured with his knife toward Delaney. “Come on!” Louder. A shout. A desperate one. “He’s gonna be here soon!”
A car door slammed. The rear door of the Lexus. The headlights of that Lexus turned on, firing right at Nash. The driver had turned on the lights while the man who’d just exited the vehicle casually strolled forward.
“Hate to break it to you,” Nash tipped his head to the left, toward the approaching figure, “but I think he’s here already.”
Sure the hell enough, Kurt Wellington was strolling toward them. Cocky, confident. Soon-to-be dead.
“Why isn’t he digging a hole?” Kurt’s annoyed voice carried easily through the night. “I believe I gave an order. The man was supposed to dig his own grave.” He reached their small group. “And then I am going to shoot him and send his ass to hell so he can fall into that grave.”
“Kurt, stop this!” A frantic plea from Delaney. “Let him go!”
Kurt’s head swung toward her. “Hello, darling. I missed you.”
Charlie lowered his knife and edged back nervously.
The two goons with the guns kept them aimed at Nash, but their attention was divided now, as well. The boss was there, and his presence seemed to make everyone nervous.
Good.
