Page 20 of Working for the Enemy

Then, cutting right through the roar of the power tools, a sound rips through the air.

A sharp, terrified scream. My heart stops. Time freezes.

The grinder slips from my grip, clattering loud against the concrete floor as the cord snaps taut. I don't even register the sparks dying out.

Marlowe.

Pure, unadulterated panic slams into my chest, instantly morphing into a blinding, icy rage. The special ops training I spent years trying to bury overrides every civilian rule. My pulse skyrockets, vision narrowing into sharp, deadly focus.

They found her.

I don't have time to think. I don't call for the crew. I bolt.

My boots hit the concrete hard, my heavy frame moving with a surprising speed as I tear through the main workshop, vaulting over a stack of rebar and heading straight toward the secluded back storage warehouse where the scream originated.

I kick open the heavy corrugated steel door of Warehouse B, the metal crashing against the frame like a gunshot.

"Get your fucking hands off her!"

The scene inside makes my blood run hot enough to melt steel.

Cornered against a row of towering iron storage racks is Marlowe. Her face is deathly pale, her light green eyes wide with terror as she clutches a heavy wrench to her chest like a shield.

Standing ten feet from her are two men. They aren't locals. They’re dressed in cheap leather jackets, built like brick walls, radiating the greasy, ruthless arrogance of city enforcers. The bigger one—the brute who must be the Denver loan shark’s muscle—has his hand raised, taking a slow, menacing step toward her.

"Come on, baby girl," the big one sneers, not even looking back at the door yet. "You thought you could hide out in the mountains with a bunch of hicks? You're coming back to Denver to pay what you⁠—"

He doesn't get to finish the sentence.

Every thread of restraint I’ve maintained since leaving the military snaps. The monster in my chest tears free.

I close the distance between us in three long, predatory strides. Before the second enforcer can even turn his head, I grab him by the throat, driving his head backward into a steel support beam with a sickening CRACK. He drops like a sack of lead, unconscious before he hits the dirt floor.

Marlowe lets out a ragged gasp. "Kane!"

I don't answer. I step directly in front of her, placing my massive body like a bulletproof shield between her and the remaining fucker who thought he could touch what’s mine.

The main enforcer staggers back, his eyes going wide as he finally looks at me. He reaches toward his waistband, grabbing something tucked into his jacket.

"Don't," I growl, my voice coming from the darkest, most lethal cellar of my soul. "Try it. Give me a reason."

The guy panics. He pulls a short, heavy crowbar from his belt and swings it wildly at my head.

Amateur.

I don't flinch. I step inside the arc of his swing, catching his forearm in a bone-crushing grip. The crowbar clatters uselessly to the floor. Before he can react, I slam my elbow directly into his nose, the crunch echoing off the metal roof. He howls, stumbling backward right into the danger zone of the yard—the active overhead gantry hook hanging low between the narrow aisles of heavy sheet metal.

I grab him by the front of his jacket, shoving him back until his spine slams against a three-ton stack of untreated iron plates.

I haul him up by his collar until his toes are barely skimming the ground. His face is bloody, his hands desperately clawing at my wrists, but trying to move my hands is like trying to bend structural steel with bare fingers.

"Listen to me very carefully, you pathetic piece of shit," I rumble, my face inches from his, my breath hot while my tone remains cold. "You tell your boss in Denver that Marlowe belongs to me now."

He chokes out a pathetic whimper, his eyes frantic.

"You have a foothold in Denver," I bite out, tightening my grip until his vision starts to swim. "But you don't own a single inch of Forge Creek. If I ever see you, your boss, or anyone associated with your miserable operation within fifty miles of this town again... I won't call the cops. I run a construction yard. I have thirty acres, heavy excavators, and five hundred places to bury bodies where no one will ever find them. Do you understand me?"

He nods frantically, gasping for air. "Yeah! Yeah, okay! We won't come back!"