“I said stop!” Ozzie shouted again, plowing down the dark alley and darting around a big, blue dumpster that, from the overpowering smell of it, was in dire need of a visit from the trash man.
The pounding of his feet on the dirty asphalt sent daggers of pain slicing through his injured thigh. The agony traveled up his spine to stab into the base of his skull.
Neither the biker nor Samantha bothered to glance back, prompting him to make his intentions crystal fucking clear. “Drop that pigsticker, asshole! Or I’ll put a bullet in the back of your skull and then piss on your corpse!”
That did it. The biker skidded to a stop, slowly lifting his hands in the air. Ozzie blew out a relieved breath when Samantha made it to the mouth of the alley and escaped around the corner.
What the hell have you gotten yourself involved in this time, Samantha?
“Was the pissing-on-his-corpse bit really necessary?” Christian asked as they slowed their momentum to stalk toward the Basilisk.
“I don’t believe in pulling my punches.” Ozzie skirted around the biker so he could get a good look at the man’s face. And, conversely, let the man get a good look at the business end of his Beretta to discourage the dickwad from attempting any funny business.
The light from the street lamps in the parking lot filtered into the mouth of the alley and lit the Basilisk’s hairy face. Ozzie could see the words forming in the guy’s beady black eyes before he hissed them aloud. “Who the fuck are you?” His vocal cords sounded like they’d been marinated in years of bad bourbon.
“Friends of the lady,” Ozzie said. The sound of the biker’s heavy breathing filled the alley. His robust middle said he wasn’t a stranger to milk shakes and cheese fries, and it’d likely been years since he’d managed more than a brisk walk.
When the biker smiled, it revealed his front teeth, all of which were gold and speckled with flecks of chewing tobacco. To call the dude ugly would be an offense to the word. He was fucking ugly. “Aw, I wasn’t gonna hurt her,” Fugly said, adding a wink that set Ozzie’s blood boiling.
His finger twitched against his trigger. The day they’d pinned his SEAL Budweiser to his chest was the day killing had become a part of his life. But taking out jihadists in the backwoods of Afghanistan was a far cry from punching a fat biker’s ticket in a Chicago alleyway. Through gritted teeth, he managed, “Drop the knife.”
“Now why would I do that?”
“Because if you don’t, you won’t be able to see or pee straight by the time we’re finished with you.”
“Big talk.”
Ozzie wiggled his Beretta from side to side. “Backed up by a big gun. Now drop the blade.”
“You won’t shoot me,” Fugly declared, his smile stretching to reveal back teeth yellowed not by gold but by poor dental hygiene. Just looking at them made Ozzie feel filthier than the floor of a taxicab.
“Look, rotten mouth.” His patience was stretched tight. “I’m trying real hard to be polite, but I have to tell you, it’s not something I excel at.”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh, now see?” Ozzie shook his head. “That just got you removed from my Christmas list. You’ve got two seconds to comply before I add you to my other list. It’s titled: Dickheads I’ve Shot in the Gut.”
The biker eyed him for a good two seconds. Then he uncurled his fingers from the hilt of the knife. The blade caught the light and glinted as it somersaulted through the air, hitting the asphalt at his feet hilt-first.
“There,” Fugly said. “Happy now?”
Getting there. “You hiding any other weapons?”
“Just my dick.” The dude spat a huge glob of tobacco juice on the ground next to Ozzie’s boot. It was a visual fuck you.
“Comedian, huh?” Ozzie asked.
Now that Samantha was safe and the adrenaline was letting down, he realized he was sweating. June in Chicago usually went one of two ways. Either spring held on with a fierce grip, keeping temps mild. Or summer came on like a she-devil, setting the city on fire. This year was the former, but since there wasn’t a breath of wind in the alley, the coolness of the night barely penetrated the insulation of his biker jacket. What little air there was felt thick…expectant, like an electrical storm rolled in the distance.
A trickle of perspiration slid from his temple to his chin. He was using his free hand to wipe it away when a noise from the parking lot had his blood running cold and goose bumps crawling over the back of his neck. It was a squeal of alarm. And it came from Samantha.
“Watch him!” Ozzie shouted, turning and running for the mouth of the alley without a backward glance.
*
“Come on! Come on!” Samantha cried, on her knees beside her classic 1976 Ford Mustang Cobra, searching for the key ring she’d dropped from her shaking fingers in her hurry to save her own life.
The car had been her father’s, one of the only things she still had of his. And usually she loved it, loved its cobalt-blue paint, white racing stripes, and manual four-gear transmission. But right now, she’d give anything for a brand-spanking-new vehicle with a keyless entry.
Her heart raced out of control. The smell of fear was ripe in the thin layer of sweat slicking her skin. And her scalp burned like a colony of fire ants had taken up residence on her head.
He’s trying to kill me!
She could not believe he was trying to kill her. There was no mistaking his words, though. Her chest hurt. She wondered if that was the feel of her heart breaking.
As soon as she had the thought, she squashed it. Surely the ache behind her breastbone was simply heartburn brought on by the dirty martini and the fact that a man she’d thought was her friend—and had hoped might be something more—was trying to feed her to the fishes.
“Gotcha!” she crowed, snagging the keys from where they’d rolled behind the front wheel. She straightened, then spun like a top when she heard Ozzie yell her name.
The Taser she’d pulled from her purse while in the bar’s bathroom was in her right hand. Her keys were in her left. And in front of her was the most gorgeous, most treacherous man she’d ever met.
“You okay?” he had the unmitigated gall to ask, jogging toward her. His gait was a little uneven due to his injured leg. He had told her he’d wrecked his motorcycle. But now she wondered if the trauma to his thigh had been caused by something far more corrupt.
She pointed her Taser at him, which caused her purse to slip from her shoulder to dangle at her elbow. Silently, she cursed herself for carrying around so much shit. Aloud, she screamed, “Stop right there, Ozzie! Don’t take another step!”
He stopped dead in his tracks and cocked his head. “Samantha? What’s wrong, sweetheart? Why are you—”