Wade is a slut” and “For a good whore call Ryanne Wade” on the men’s room wall.
He despised her, all because she’d helped her friend and ex-stepsister Lyndie Scott leave her husband, Chief Carrington, Jim’s former boss.
The abuses the chief inflicted on the delicate Lyndie, turning a buoyant young girl into a woman with crippling shyness and constant panic attacks... For the first and only time in her life, Ryanne had contemplated cold-blooded murder.
A jealous husband did it for her, giving the beater and cheater a taste of his own medicine. In Jim’s mind, Lyndie and Ryanne were responsible. What if he blamed the sex and drugs on Ryanne? What if he jailed her?
Can’t risk calling for help. “Thank you, Loner. Please report any other shady activity to me instead of the constipated man. Okay?”
He nodded. Determined to hunt down the van, she surged into the crammed parking lot. As she wove in and out, peeking into windows, the loud wail of a jackhammer registered. Her gaze zoomed across the street, where halogen lights were posted around a construction site.
Not too long ago, a man named Martin Dushku had come to see her. Though he’d had violent tattoos on his neck and hands, he’d worn a sophisticated suit that probably cost more than her SUV.
He was opening a strip club nearby, he’d said, and hoped she wouldn’t mind having competition.
She’d smiled and said, “What competition? I run a bar, not a strip club.” Besides, economic theory suggested two competing businesses being located right across from one another was actually better for each business, because the competition fueled more activity and therefore more business.
He’d laughed. “And your place is low end while mine will be high end. But,” he’d added, “I’d prefer to buy you out and run both businesses, which would free you up to travel.”
Her desire to travel wasn’t a secret, but he’d still managed to creep her out. She’d refused his offer. She wanted to travel, yes, but she also wanted a home to return to, something she hadn’t had as a child. More specifically Earl’s home. Also, she enjoyed providing meals for the homeless. Mr. Dushku struck her as the type of man who would treat the less fortunate like dirt.
She’d expected a fight, but he’d accepted her refusal gracefully and taken off.
Mind on the task at hand. He’s not my worry tonight.
Right. Almost done. Only a few more cars to check. In fact, she was about to breathe a sigh of relief that there was no sign of the van or foul play when she came to a shadowed corner in back, with only two vehicles. One—a van. The other was a sedan. Her stomach sank. Both vehicles had tinted windows and, just as Loner reported, the van rocked back and forth.
What should I do?
Light suddenly flooded the sedan, allowing her to lock eyes with the man behind the wheel. He was smoking a cigarette, casual and unabashed. Beside him sat a man with a snake tattooed on his jaw.
I should...run? They had to be pimps or bodyguards, because their charge was clearly doling out goods and services in the van.
Run? No! Fury sparked inside Ryanne, tempered only by dismay.
Calling the cops was no longer a should-she-shouldn’t-she situation. She should. She would. First, she needed proof of her innocence, just in case Rayburn tried to turn the tables on her. So, despite possible dangers, Ryanne withdrew her phone and took pictures of the men and the license plate on both vehicles. No one would be pinning a crime on her.
When she stood at the rear, the passengers decided now would be the perfect time to emerge. Well, crap. She began to stream a live video on her phone. A weapon in and of itself: it proved her innocence, while ensuring the guys couldn’t do anything violent without a boatload of witnesses.
“Say hello to the world,” she said, and grabbed her gun as a just in case.
Cigarette was over six feet tall while Snake topped out at about five-five. Both males were muscled, heavily tattooed and glaring at her.
Ryanne stood her ground. How many times had she been forced to break up fights involving big, scary men? Countless.
Cigarette slapped a hand against the van, once, twice, and it stopped rocking.
“You and your crimes aren’t welcome here.” She was proud. Her voice, like the rest of her, held steady. “Leave, and don’t come back.”
Snake looked her over slowly, leered and licked his lips. “You might want to watch your mouth, little girl. You don’t, and bad things are likely to happen.”
“Please,” she said, “threaten me again. I’m not sure the camera captured your best angle.”
The door in back of the van suddenly swung open, a man wearing tighty-whities falling out. With the rest of his clothes clutched against his chest, he sprinted past Ryanne and down the street. The alleged prostitute—blonde, pale and thin, with wide eyes full of fear—remained inside and shut the door.
“You okay in there?” Ryanne called.
Silence.
Cigarette took a menacing step toward Ryanne.
“Stop! Anything happens to me, and the world will know who’s responsible.” As a tremor swept through her, the phone fell from her grip and thudded on the concrete. Crap! At least she still had her gun.
“We know who you are, and we know the cops hate your guts. They’ll blame you if anything happens to us,” he replied.
How did he know about her fears?
Thumping footfalls sounded in the distance, growing closer by the second. She tensed, unsure what was about to happen, when—
Jude appeared in front of the vehicles, his hands balled like sledgehammers. He squared his shoulders and braced his legs apart, his posture rigid. A precombat stance. He wasn’t panting, but he was making some kind of low growling noise, as if he were a rabid animal who’d finally found a meal.
Commando likes the taste of blood. And oh, wow, she liked this side of him. In the moonlight, he was a god. A warrior without equal.
Still, her tension spiked. If he were hurt...
To her astonishment, Cigarette and Snake immediately backed up. Cigarette slid into the sedan, and Snake climbed behind the wheel of the van. All without a word. One after the other, the vehicles shot out of the parking lot.
Ryanne lunged forward, intending to follow. On foot? Idiot! But the girl...
Jude latched on to her wrist, keeping her in place. “Don’t,” he snapped. “You’ll only get yourself killed.”
Was he mad at her?
No, no. Couldn’t be. He was mad at the world. Always.
She swiped up her phone, intending to dial 911. Instead, she paused. “Who are they? Were they selling that girl?”
“They work for a man named Martin Dushku, and yes. They were selling that girl. Have been for the
