“I did not editorialize!” she yelled into her phone. “That was a direct quote from the asshole.”
Charlie made some rumblings about defamation and having to print a retraction if he let the article run. Samantha wondered if Charlie was more worried that they were about to drag the guy’s name through the mud or that the dick munch had close ties with the mayor.
“How about this.” She hated to compromise but knew that was the only way. “You mark it up and send it to me. I’ll make some changes, and we’ll bump it to the next edition.”
She curled her hand so tightly around her cell phone that the casing emitted a pained crackle. But her grip wasn’t because Charlie was pissing her off. Oh no. She was used to that. Two women in power suits and sneakers—out for a walk during their lunch break, apparently—were making a beeline toward Ozzie, and that’s why she was trying to throttle her poor iPhone. Ozzie, the cad, was grinning at them, his easy, open expression inviting conversation.
Can’t take him anywhere, she thought uncharitably, remembering the time they’d gone to the movies together and the over-perfumed seventy-something lady sitting next to him had tried to hold his hand. By the end of the film, Ozzie had let her. Because he was kind and adorable and just the best thing since sliced bread.
Samantha had never been a jealous person. But the minute Ozzie reached out to shake the ladies’ hands, to touch them when he hadn’t touched her all fucking day long, she was pretty sure that if she looked in the mirror, she’d find her brown eyes had turned green.
“Hang on, Charlie,” she grumbled. To Ozzie, she said, “I’m going to finish my call in the car!”
If he wanted to follow her, he was welcome to. Or he could just stand there and be admired.
Yuck. She did not like feeling this way.
Quickening her steps, she made her way up the block, heading to the spot where she and Ozzie had parked their vehicles. She’d driven her Mustang to the lunch meeting, and Ozzie had retrieved his motorcycle from the parking garage at Tribune Tower.
And yes. Okay. So she’d nearly wrecked twice on the short drive from Michigan Avenue to Rush Street because she’d spent most of her time gazing at Ozzie in her rearview mirror instead of watching the street in front of her.
But can you blame me? By himself, Ozzie was sexy as hell. Ozzie on a motorcycle was so hot, it should be outlawed.
Sandwiching her phone between her ear and shoulder, she dug into the side pocket of her purse for her keys. She was curling her fingers around the key ring when Ozzie yelled from behind her, “Shit! Look out!”
“Huh?” She turned to look back at him but was distracted by the white van that squealed to a stop at the curb, tires smoking as rubber melted onto asphalt.
What happened next was a blur. She thought she saw a big-bellied man with a dark beard hop out of the van and rush toward her with his arm raised menacingly. She thought she recognized him from the video footage of the night before. And she thought she heard Ozzie yell her name as the sound of his big biker boots pounding on pavement struck a quick, frantic rhythm. But she couldn’t be certain of anything. Because, just like in the cartoons, an anvil fell on her head, and she was suddenly seeing stars.
*
Ozzie had his Beretta out and aimed through the driver’s side window a split second after Bulldog tossed a dazed Samantha into the back of the van. He didn’t dare take a shot, however. The street was bustling with people, and he couldn’t chance a ricochet that could injure or kill an innocent bystander.
Bulldog took advantage of Ozzie’s momentary hesitation by putting the van in gear and peeling away from the curb with an ear-piercing squeal of tires.
Shit, fuck, damn, and dick!
“What the hell?” Washington thundered from the corner. The police chief had seen Ozzie and Samantha leave the sidewalk in front of Downtown Dogs and decided to investigate. But that was too little too late. Bulldog was barreling down the street, blowing through stop signs and traffic lights, leaving swerving cars and honking taxicabs in his wake.
Ozzie didn’t hesitate. He holstered his weapon and ran to his motorcycle. “Bulldog just whacked Samantha over the head with a billy club! He’s got her in that white van!” He rocked Violet off her kickstand, gritting his teeth when a lance of razor-sharp agony stabbed through his thigh. Don’t fail me now, he silently commanded his bum leg. “I’m going after them! Follow me if you can!”
“Wait! Let me—”
Ozzie didn’t stick around to hear the end of Washington’s sentence. He roared down the street, dodging in and out of traffic, all while quickly working through possible scenarios of how this could play out.
He could catch up with them and shoot out the tires. But if he disabled the vehicle, Bulldog’s options would be twofold. Run, or take Samantha hostage inside the van. Ozzie didn’t like the sound of the latter. Not one bit.
So maybe he could ride up behind them, jump from Violet onto the van’s back bumper, and hope he could wrench the cargo doors open. But if Bulldog was packing, once Ozzie was in the back of the van with Samantha, he’d be an easy target. Not to mention that Samantha could inadvertently take a round meant for him. He liked the sound of that less still.
Or there was a third option. He could pull even with the van and try to shoot Bulldog through the driver’s side window. But without a driver, the van could spin out of control, no doubt plowing into civilians and likely injuring Samantha in the inevitable crash. That seemed to be the worst option of all.
Ozzie had been scared before. Plenty of times. There was his first year in the navy when he’d been riding copilot in a helicopter that suffered catastrophic engine failure, forcing the pilot to ditch the bird in the ocean. There was that incident in Afghanistan when he’d been left to make like Usain Bolt and hightail it out of a Taliban leader’s hideout after one of his teammates called in an impromptu air strike. And last but certainly not least, there was the hotel in Kuala Lumpur where an incendiary device had nearly blown his damn leg off. Proned out and bleeding in the hallway, he hadn’t known whether he would live or die.
In fact, it was a great fallacy that spec-ops guys in general, and SEALs in particular, didn’t get scared. The misconception was promoted by Hollywood, which liked to portray men in his profession as macho, grunting hulks muscling their way through every situation. But in truth, all SEALs shared one trait. Brainpower. And being smart meant knowing how easily one could bite the bullet.
So yep. Ozzie knew fear. But never had he felt it sink its teeth into him with as much vigor as it did when Samantha was in danger. And when he wasn’t sure how he was going to get her out of it.