Bare It All

Still holding the Desert Eagle, Rowdy followed right behind her.

Reese peeked around the counter to ensure no one followed. So far, both men were still out, and he hadn’t heard a shot in the last few sec—

A bullet hit the floor in front of his face, sending him ducking for cover again. Not more than two or three minutes had passed, but under these circumstances, a minute could feel like an hour.

He joined the others in back.

As Rowdy had said, the store was empty. The second they cleared the doorway, Reese closed the door. There was a dead bolt on it, which to his beleaguered senses seemed fairly suspect. What happened in this narrow room that required such a sturdy lock?

He saw only shelves of supplies, a file cabinet and a single chair...in the middle of the floor.

His brain buzzed with possibilities, but for now, the dead bolt worked in their favor. He secured the lock and turned to assess the situation.

Peterson stood beside the back door, her spine flattened against the wall. At any other time, Reese might have paid more attention to how mismatched she appeared in those mile-high heels and a printed T-shirt so large it hung off one shoulder and fell below her knees.

Today was not that day.

He put in the call for backup, then pocketed Rowdy’s phone. They had a squad car about five minutes out—which might not be soon enough if they got into a shoot-out in such close confines. “Is it clear?”

She shrugged the bared shoulder. “Looks like. We open into an alley that leads to the street. But since none of this was expected, are we willing to trust that it’s not a trap?”

Reese weighed the options. “The angles are wrong unless they have a sniper.” What to do? “If we stay here, we’re sitting ducks.”

“I have my car close by,” Rowdy said. “That alley leads to a back street. I’m one block down in an empty lot.”

“Don’t even think it,” Peterson warned. She chewed the pink gloss off her bottom lip. “Jesus, I never expected things to go so hot so fast.”

“It’s insane,” Reese agreed as he tried to figure out what to do.

The jarring sound of the front door crashing open drew his attention. They wouldn’t have five seconds, much less five minutes. Whoever came after them didn’t worry about witnesses or the destruction of Killer Designz.

That could only mean they planned to kill all three of them and be long gone before the police arrived.

Reese removed the Glock from his back holster and traded it for the Desert Eagle.

Rowdy lifted a brow. “You want the bigger, badder gun?”

“I trust my weapon,” Reese explained. And he wanted to ensure Rowdy could defend himself. “I know I’ve taken care of it.”

“Thanks.” Rowdy hefted it in his hand once, then launched out the back door before Reese could stop him.

“Idiot,” Peterson muttered in a hiss.

Cursing softly, Reese divided his time between watching the locked door, as the sounds of assailants drew closer, and watching Rowdy as he darted to the end of the alley.

“What the hell is he doing?” Peterson asked.

Seeing Rowdy run without apparent fear of personal injury, Reese muttered, “I assume he’s playing hero.”

Luckily, Rowdy made it without a single shot being fired. At the end of the alley, near the street, he signaled that it was clear.

The lieutenant sucked in a breath and said, “Let’s go.”

Great. They’d either be killed or not, but sitting there waiting to be murdered didn’t much appeal to him either. Reese followed her out, impressed that she could run so fluidly in those deadly heels.

Rowdy covered them, his gaze going everywhere as he waited for them to join him. Not a single shot was fired, and no more noise came from the tattoo parlor.

Together, they hustled toward the lot holding Rowdy’s car. Soon as they reached it, they could let the officers know they were clear.

And with any luck, they’d be able to round up the shooters.

But Reese wouldn’t be holding his breath; so far, luck hadn’t been on their side.

Two questions pounded through his brain as they reached safety.

Just how big was this operation—and how far would they go to find Alice?

* * *

THE PHONE CALLS had come in rapid order.

First the warning call from Killer Designz, letting him know that people were snooping around. He’d sent in his men, and they’d reported back to say they had effectively razed the place, leaving behind little more than rubble within an empty building. The curious trio had escaped, but not without first understanding the reach of his power, the strength of his daring.

Smirking, Woody Simpson recalled the breathless panic of the tattoo artist who, from a safer location, had called again. With the promise of protection from the law, and a new and better location, concerns had been quieted.

And now he had DeeDee on the line.

Feet propped on the desk, shirt unbuttoned and chair tilted back, Woody listened to the final report on the day’s events. Thanks to a fast-growing enterprise, he spent so much time in his office that he’d gradually turned it into a comfortable, condolike space.

He didn’t cook, of course, but he had others who made use of the small kitchen to prepare his meals. He had a large-screen TV and spacious couch, and he’d brought in a king-size bed to convert a boardroom for sleeping.

Not that he ever slept during the day. Even at night, he didn’t need much sleep. He’d always been high-energy, motivated and so f**king smart that others couldn’t keep up.