Winters Heat (Titan) (2 page)

The GPS interrupted his prayer. “Exit highway in one hundred and fifty feet. Your destination will be on the right.”

What do you know?
He should pray more often.

He pulled off the highway exit. The motel was ahead, and he bounced over the rough entrance. The vacant lot had faded parking space lines and crater-like potholes. Knee-high weeds ran the length of the curb. A black Taurus was at the end of the lot. Fan-fuckin-tastic.

Winters parked his pickup truck around the side, ran through a quick ammunition and supply check, and closed in on the pay-by-the-hour room. He jogged by several silent rooms, then heard muffled words and a feminine yell.
Son of a bitch.
As much as he didn’t like to work with weepy women, he would rain hell on anyone hurting them. Weeping or not.

One heel kick and the cheap door splintered off of broken hinges. Surprise was on his side. Winters held the Glock in his right hand and used his teeth to pull the pin from a tear gas charge the size of a cherry bomb. Nothing too serious, but enough for a distraction. Perfect for overwhelming a small room with a little smoke and burn.

He tossed it in with a shouldn’t-have-fucked-with-me grin. The sparse room filled with the hissing smoke. The three other occupants clawed at their faces and covered their tearing eyes. In the smoky haze, their gagging noises, harsh sputters, and coughs littered the room like three teenagers wheezing on their first cigarettes.

Winters was trained for the gas. Prepared for it. Hell, the bitter taste in his mouth was almost pleasant, a Pavlovian effect tied to the adrenaline rush of throwing one of those babies into a room. Pull. Pop. Hiss. He loved it every single time.

He wanted to brawl, to clash, and take them down. Hard. They shouldn’t have screwed with his day. They shouldn’t have stuffed Miss-Khakis-and-Cardigan into the trunk of their car.

He moved with a single step to the closest man and punched, breaking the man’s nose, which felt as gratifying as it sounded.

Winters smiled and beckoned for more.
Come and play
. The man staggered backwards in the haze, head in hand, blood seeping through his fingers.

The second man lurched toward him, arms swinging, as he jumped side to side. Winters jabbed an elbow into his attacker. The man reeled back, sucking in the acrid smoke in uncontrolled gasps.

Hopefully, one of them would hop up jack-in-the-box style, so he could have another round. Knees bent and body agile, he readied. The first man gained his bearings. Winters egged him on. “Try me.”

The man charged. Winters landed a punch to his bloodied face.
Thud
. Knocked out.

The second man staggered forward, brandishing a switchblade with untamed, arching slashes. Looked like the same blade he pushed against the woman’s midsection earlier. That was a mistake. Both then and now.

“You’re going to wish you didn’t bring that out to play today. Never should have threatened the lady. Never should have gotten in my way. Never, ever should have fucked up my job.”

Winters grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted toward the stained popcorn ceiling. A bone cracked. The knife hit the dirty floor. And all the while, a feminine fit of coughs reverberated from near the back closet. She was choking on the gas and hadn’t moved to escape.

“Are you hurt?” he called to the woman.

No answer. Only gasps as she stumbled through the smoke.

“Where’s the package?”

“Go to hell.” Her words wheezed and faded.

Of course. What’d he expect? His lips upturned in a mixture of annoyance and exasperation, and his eyes burned as his tolerance for the gas neared its threshold. “Do you have it or not?”

The woman scampered and made a weak maneuver to escape. He stepped in front of her with a menacing grunt. This lady wasn’t going anywhere.

She wilted without fresh air. As he countered her next move in their hasty dance, she backed into the corner again. He continued to question her, gruff and with quick efficiency, but only more coughs responded. She sniffled and wiped at her watering eyes. He felt bad. Almost.

“Stay put,” he said.

He pulled plastic zip ties, his handcuff of choice, out of his back pocket and secured the unconscious men to a table. The woman jumped from her crouch in the corner. She fumbled toward the busted door, arms outstretched, wailing a determined cry. He hooked an arm around her waist. She flailed, arms pumping and legs bicycling the Tour de France.

He tossed her on the bed, clapped his hands on both her shoulders, and held her in place. “I’m not playing, lady. Don’t move.”

Winters took in the room. The cops might be there within minutes. “Last time. Where’s the package?”

The woman hesitated with a sputter of coughs.

Damn, he didn’t want to threaten her. He stood to his full height but didn’t give an ultimatum. He watched her eyes flicking around the room, looking everywhere, landing on every possible hiding spot…except—bingo. He kept on eye on her and opened a drawer.

“No.” She hacked again. “Don’t.”

The package
.

The woman scooted to the side of the bed and jumped for it in his hand. The tear gas gnawed into his patience. What was she doing? His decision making skills weren’t firing like they should. Not being able to think in this time constraint, he needed answers. Like who the hell she was, for starters.

He wrapped an arm around the woman and threw her over his shoulder. She was as light as she looked and losing steam with each gas-filled gasp.

“Wait. No. Let me go. Help. Someone help!”

“Pipe down,” he said in a manner in which Jared wouldn’t have approved.

Still, she continued a feeble holler. “Help. Someone. Help.”

There wasn’t anyone around, so her hoarse cries didn’t matter. In joints like this, most everyone minded their own business. But still, she was a confusing headache. He didn’t have to take her. He could’ve left her for the cops to figure out. But she looked more suited to sell Girl Scout cookies than handle thugs and cops.

She’d been hell bent on grabbing the package and couldn’t have had a day of training in her life. She didn’t make sense, and he wouldn’t abandon her, his protective nature stoked.

Winters cleared the splintered door with her still over his shoulder. In the distance, the police sirens sounded. He made double sure the package was in his back pocket, then hightailed it to his truck.

Once he reached the four-door pickup, he set her down. “Stop hollering. I’m not a bad guy. We’re getting the hell out of here, then we’ll work this all out. Chill.”

A determined flash glinted in her eyes, and he felt her muscles tense before she made a move. Gritting her teeth, she made a swift kick to his balls.
Son of a bitch
. Thank God for his reflexes. She was a handful, even when gassed.

“All right. If that’s how you want to play, lady.” He tossed her into the backseat of the truck. “I have the stupid package you’re so worked up about. So don’t think about jumping out of the truck while it’s rolling. We’ll make a deal. You’ll get something, and I’ll keep what I already have.”

Winters scrubbed his face with the palm of his hand, then standing outside the open door, caged her in the backseat with his arms and torso. Why did he care if she bailed on him? He had the package. It was his only task. This mission was halfway done, and none of his task list included this woman. But why did she want it in the first place? It didn’t make sense.

Propped on her elbows, she kicked at him, landing her feet on his abs. He rolled his eyes. “Well hell, lady.”

She would make a run for it given the chance. He knew it. Winters looked at her, then the door locks. She was a liability that he didn’t have time for today. He engaged the child safety looks, locking her in the backseat.

His seat punched forward every few seconds as she beat her heels into it. He dropped his head, suppressing a vicious string of swears. Before the cops could fly into the motel parking lot, Winters eased out the entrance. Unsure where to go for the time being, he pushed a button on his cell phone and connected to Jared.

“Got the package. And the lady.” He glanced in his rearview mirror at her.

Fresh air had reinvigorated her, and she kicked his seat over and over, making his teeth saw together.

“Let me go, you jerk.”

“Sounds like it,” Jared said. “Clean up your mess and move it on home. And for God’s sake, Winters, play nice.”

Play nice probably meant no knockout juice or truth serum.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll figure out who she works for, and how she knew the pickup spot. Then I’ll send her on her merry way.” She kept kicking. He was so far past annoyed that it was amusing, in a he-must-be-out-of-his-mind kind of way. “She’s a spitfire. It’s entertaining.”

She shouted, “You don’t scare me. I’ll kick you again. Get close to me and see what happens.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jared murmured before ending their call.

Winters sighed, resigned to the pounding in his head.

CHAPTER TWO

Not a bad guy
? He seemed like one. The man wasn’t law enforcement. He didn’t have a badge to go with that gun he slung around, and his mannerisms were more lethal than reassuring.

This nightmare was the makings of a television evening newscast special. The news anchor would look into the camera, earnest and pensive, wondering aloud in a dramatic voice about Mia Kensington’s last hours alive. Or maybe a reporter would interview her coworkers and family, everyone guessing about why she was in Kentucky or how she ended quartered into neat pieces that fit inside a handful of grocery bags.

Mia massaged the hammering in her head and tried to swallow against the raw burn in her throat. She sniffled again. Her nose still hadn’t stopped running since he threw tear gas at her. Her eyes stung, and no amount of rubbing helped. Mascara smudges covered her knuckles, and her swollen lips were in desperate need of balm. Too bad the men who took her from the airport trashed her purse on the way out the door.

She had no phone, no identification, and no way to get help. The man driving the pickup truck apparently didn’t care how many times she kicked the back of his seat. He just went about his business, making phone calls, and glancing at her in the rearview mirror. It was just as well. What would she do if he turned around? She shuddered. She was trapped in the vehicle with him and needed an escape plan desperately.

She studied him at the wheel. His dark brown hair was mussed from the fight at the motel room. Sweat dampened his short sideburns. His tanned neck was corded, and every few minutes, the man ran rough-knuckled hands to the back of his neck, rubbing his nape. He flipped the radio station at the end of every song, pushing the button several times in a row. Were those nervous tics? Interesting that someone so forceful, so brutal, was fidgeting.

Mia shook her head. Nothing she practiced as a psychologist could get her out of this truck. She needed to scrounge up every memory from the self-defense class provided to civilian women on base.

Too bad there wasn’t anything on escape and evade. That would have been useful. Far more helpful than practiced groin kicks on a plastic dummy. She glanced at the front seat. Her groin kicks to muscle-man up there failed. She tried the tactic over and over, and he had laughed each time her knee jabbed his muscled thighs and abdomen. Laughed and rolled his eyes like she was the campy comic relief during an action movie.

The man adjusted his rearview mirror again. It worked to her advantage this time, giving her a direct view of him. Too bad his eyes were hidden by sunglasses.

“Want to explain your side?” He sounded rough but more interested in conversation than harming her, which was just as alarming.

Nope, nothing to share here.

He had a strong jawline. His lips were fuller than she’d noticed. She would remember every detail for the sketch artist after she escaped. She wanted his face all over the eleven o’clock news. Headline: Madman Proficient in Gunplay Saves Woman.

No. Not saves. Madman Proficient in Gunplay Kidnaps Woman.
She was nowhere near saved sitting in this truck.

He had used the child safety locks. Those only worked on the backdoors.
Right
? If she could time it correctly, she could surprise him and get out the front passenger door. They were still in a residential neighborhood. Stop signs and semi-regular traffic. If she could get out, a cop could swoop in and save her. Soon as they slowed she would make her move.

He decelerated for a red light.
Deep breath in. Time to go.

She lunged over the headrest. Her foot caught his sunglasses, and she used the leverage pushing toward the passenger door.

The man cursed and grabbed her calf. The truck skidded. A thunder started from the depths of her lungs and blazed past her raw throat. An adrenaline blast pushed her, and she launched away, her hand clawing at the door handle, the window button, anything to get an outsider’s attention.

He still had hold on her leg, and she kicked, connecting with his face. Maybe his chin. Definitely his shoulder.