were looking for, Remy had it. They had time, but probably not much.
“Give your gun to my friend,” the man holding Remy said calmly.
After flipping on the safety, Lincoln gave the curly-haired man his gun. The man took it and stood.
“Search the house,” the one holding Remy said. “And make it quick.” He was the lead thug. He exuded a false sense of power that stemmed from his gun and the team he had with him.
The man shot in the knee stumbled to his feet, and one of the tall, lean men helped him out the door. The other two began to tear apart Remy’s house—the curly-haired man and the other tall, lean man. A few minutes later, both came out from the hallway, one of them carrying a manila envelope.
Lincoln checked Remy. Her eyes met his before she blinked long and slow, full of dread.
One of the men handed the dark-haired one the envelope, and took over with a gun at Remy’s head.
“Take care of them,” the dark-haired man said. “Then meet me at the OneDefense store.”
“Yes, sir,” the man with the gun at Remy’s head said.
The other jabbed Lincoln with his gun. “Try anything and my friend here will shoot her.”
He believed him. Remy’s frightened eyes met his. These two were going to kill them. He winked at her. She had no idea what he was capable of, and humor could disarm fear. The best news was that dark-haired bastard had left only two of his men in charge of the task.
She eyed him quizzically as they were forced outside. He imagined her thoughts. How could he joke at a time like this? They were about to be killed, and he was winking at her.
He grinned, glancing from her to the man behind him. That man gave him a shove, a reaction to Lincoln’s smirk.
Remy mouthed, “Stop it.” He was well aware of the danger, but succumbing to hopelessness would do them no good.
Outside, he searched for signs that anyone would see them being taken. No cars drove by. No one stood in lit windows. The two armed men were careful. They checked first before guiding them to a parked SUV. It hadn’t been there when he’d gone over to Remy’s house.
Remy was shoved into the back, and he was led to the front passenger seat. He wouldn’t risk her being shot by trying anything just yet.
The man drove toward the foothills, turning off on a two-lane highway and then off onto a dirt road that led to open space near the foothills west of Denver. It was dark. Even darker near the trees, where the driver stopped.
He could hear Remy’s breathing.
“Get out,” the driver said, “or she dies.”
He highly doubted they’d off her in the car and leave all that evidence, but Lincoln indulged the man. Remy looked at him wide-eyed, as though she couldn’t believe how calm he was and how easily he did as he was told.
He got out and waited for the man in the backseat to do the same, forcing Remy to get out after him. The driver got out, too, and Lincoln saw that he’d left the keys in the ignition. That would come in handy in a few minutes.
When Remy left the car, he hit the backseat man’s gun hand at the same time he grabbed Remy by the arm and tugged her down. She fell onto her hip. Lincoln used his foot to knock the backseat man’s wrist. The gun fired and dropped from his grasp. Fisting a handful of the man’s hair, Lincoln rammed the man’s head down against the top edge of the car door, then drove his knee into the man’s sternum.
He grunted in pain while Lincoln retrieved the gun and used it to bash the back of the man’s head. The man went down as gunfire from the other side of the car sent bullets through the windshield.
Staying low, making sure Remy was still protected, Lincoln waited for the driver to reach the front fender of the SUV and then fired, hitting the shoulder of his gun arm. The gun dropped. Tactically moving in on the opportunity, Lincoln charged for the man. Around the front of the car, he knelt and picked up the gun, his gun. The driver sat on the ground grimacing, blood oozing from the gunshot wound.
“Get in!” he yelled to Remy.
She did, while he aimed both pistols at the fallen man and ran around him to the driver’s side, getting in and then reversed the vehicle enough so he could spin it around. The back passenger door flapped wildly before slamming shut. Bullets hit the side and back of the car as they raced away.
Remy’s breathing eased from frantic to just trying to keep up with her heart. She was scared.
“First time they’ve ever come after you?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Who are they?”
Swallowing, she glanced over fretfully and didn’t answer.
A man who wasn’t her boyfriend was threatening her, and now a group of strange men dressed in suits had just tried to kill her. Why?
“What was in the envelope?” he asked.
She kept her face forward. She still didn’t reply.
Sighing, Lincoln drove back to town. “I’m taking us to the police, then.”
“No!” She sat ramrod straight in her seat, eyes bright with renewed adrenaline, her hand tight on the door handle and the other clenched in a fist.
“No?” he replied mockingly.
“No. I can’t go to the police.”
Can’t go to the police? “Whenever I hear people say that, it usually means they’re in trouble with the law.”
A few strained breaths passed before she said, “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Good. Then let’s go tell the police about all of this. And while we’re there, you’ll tell them what was in the envelope.”
She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. “I’m dead. They won’t stop until they find me.” She lifted her head. “And you now.”
“Why me?” Would they assume he knew what she’d done? Or had his mere presence at Remy’s house been enough? He’d seen them take the envelope.
Her head fell back against the seat again.
“If I’m in danger, then you should tell me everything you know,” he said. “I’m better equipped to deal with matters that way. You’re an HR assistant...or so you say.”
Her head came up once more. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He didn’t answer. But his silence was enough for her. He glanced over and saw her shrewdly assessing him, picking up on the accuracy of his suspicion. She may even be a little awed. He didn’t let her in on the fact that his investigative ability was part of his job.
“What makes you better equipped than me? You’re a martial arts instructor, not a cop.”
Again,
