didn’t appear again, she returned her focus to hugging the centerline of the road. Relief sighed through her when she reached the base of the valley and the road straightened out once more.
The breath caught in her throat when she noticed a jacked-up truck with oversize wheels following close behind.
Looked like she’d picked up a tail. The truck closed the distance between them until it was riding her bumper. Hard.
Laurel refused to give way to the truck that was trying to run her off the road. She made out two men. If she let them send her into the ditch, she’d be at a distinct disadvantage. A grim smile touched her lips at the understatement.
Rule one in combat: keep the upper hand.
“Hold on, Sammy.”
The German shepherd, who rode shotgun, woofed in response.
She swerved, cutting off the truck’s attempt to come up on her right side.
Despite its battered appearance, the truck had muscle behind it, and she had combat driving training on her side. She called upon every skill she had and slammed down the accelerator, rocketing ahead. She stepped on the gas and didn’t let up. As the speed increased, her breathing slowed, steadied.
When she spotted a rutted road up ahead, nearly hidden by underbrush, she turned sharply, then held her breath when the truck passed in a tail of battered air and a boil of dust.
She wasn’t one to waste time on self-congratulations, but she couldn’t hold back a fist pump in the air followed by a brief prayer of gratitude. A scripture flashed into her mind. If God be for us, who can be against us?
Then it was back to business. The men would be back. What’s more, they undoubtedly had others in their network who would be coming after her as well. She was outmanned and outgunned.
Laurel didn’t run from trouble—Rangers typically ran toward it—but she wasn’t foolhardy. Admitting that she needed help hadn’t been easy, but she was grateful that an S&J operative was on his way. She only hoped he arrived in time.
* * *
Mace Ransom nosed into a parking spot at the mom-and-pop grocery store and waited for the client to show up. He climbed out of the truck and leaned against the fender. Anticipation sent adrenaline pumping through him as he replayed his boss’s words in his mind.
We’ve got a new client who’s found herself on the wrong side of the Collective. Laurel Landry. She needs backup, and she needs it now. Shelley Rabb Judd, founder and co-owner of S&J Security/Protection, had rattled off a name and directions to the meeting spot. By the way, she’s a Ranger, on medical leave.
He had kitted up, including flexi-cuffs, flash bangs and a few other goodies, such as an H&K UMP, suppressed and chambered, along with his NVGs. His night vision goggles had come in handy on more than one occasion.
The Glock 17, his preferred weapon, he placed in a custom-made shoulder holster. All that was left was his K-bar knife, which he slid inside his boot. He traveled light and liked it that way. Too many possessions, too many emotions, slowed you down.
There’d been no one to contact, no one to let know that he was going out of town. He supposed he ought to be grateful for the freedom. Instead, it only emphasized the fact that he was alone.
The spurt of self-pity annoyed him, and he shoved aside the unaccustomed feelings to focus on the job.
A battered sedan pulled in and a tall woman climbed out, accompanied by a dog. She raked Mace with a long look, then nodded, apparently satisfied, and strode toward him.
“You’re S&J, right?”
“Mace Ransom.” He drew in a sharp breath, not expecting the kick-to-the-gut attraction to the lady. Beautiful didn’t begin to describe her.
She was a job. He’d do well to remember that.
“Laurel Landry.” She stuck out a callused hand. “I’ve got two tangos on my tail. They’re locked and loaded. I lost them a few miles back, but they’ll catch up. Sooner rather than later, I’m guessing.”
“Who’s that?” he asked, gesturing toward the dog.
“Sammy. My partner.”
She had no more gotten the words out of her mouth when a high-riding pickup pulled into the parking lot. Two men climbed out. They were loaded for bear with pistol-grip Mossberg twelve-gauge shotguns at the ready. The twelve-gauge shotguns would take down a grizzly. He didn’t want to see what they could do to a man.
The bigger of the two men, who held his weapon with casual ease, pushed his way forward and addressed Mace. “No sense beatin’ round the bush. Let us have the woman and we’ll kill you fast, rather than take our time with it.” Nicotine-stained teeth flashed in what Mace supposed was the man’s version of a grin.
Mace knew the lady was waiting for his reaction. Did she expect he’d just hand her over? He widened his stance. “Not gonna happen.”
“What’s she to you?” the man challenged, shifting his grip on the twelve-gauge ever so slightly.
“None of your business. And I take it real personal when someone says they’re gonna kill me. Fast or slow.”
The one doing the talking was clearly the leader. The hard look in his eyes spoke of a lifetime of bad choices and bad company. He stank of sour sweat and cigar smoke.
Mace switched his attention to the second man.
He was twitchy and shorter by several inches than his partner, with the compact, dense muscles of a wrestler or football running back. That spelled strength, but it also might mean he didn’t move as quickly as his leaner companion.
His head swiveled back and forth, and he shuffled from one foot to the other. Clearly, he ranked far down in the Collective hierarchy. Probably brought along for backup only. Dark hair sprouted around the armholes and neck of the camouflage-colored T-shirt he wore.
The first man aimed his weapon at Mace, an obvious show of power. Mace studied the man’s hands. He’d always found that hands telegraphed a man’s intention more than did the eyes. The man’s hands were sweaty. He wasn’t as calm as he pretended. Mace saw through the cocky facade to the fissures beneath.
He could use that.
“Whoever’s paying you to do this isn’t paying you enough,” Laurel said, speaking for the first time since the men arrived.
“Yeah? What’s it to you?”
“Only that if you’re going to kill me, I’d like to know my murderer was getting a big payoff.”
He grinned, a stretch of thin lips that held no trace of humor. “We’re not gonna kill you. Just take you to some folks that’ll pay us ten grand.”
“I figure I should be worth at least fifty grand.”
Confusion crossed his partner’s face. “Fifty grand?” Outrage rimmed his words.
“It’s like I said in the first place,
