Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“Are you in love with my daughter?”
The voice was familiar. I answered without an ounce of hesitation. “Yes. With every part of me, I love your little girl, Mr. Resnov.” When Natasha first brought him to a game, introductions were on a first-name basis. Here, as a matter of fact. That March? She’d kept her distance, at first. Now, I knew why. Before her rape, she thought I wasn’t into her. Then I became what she needed. Man, I wished that had been the case without tragedy hitting her so hard.
“Mr. Res—?”
“I’m here. She’s engaged.”
That was a reach. “Edik.” A smile entered my voice. Naxos had been peaceful, us on the beach day and night. She’d come clean about her father’s agreement with the Mikhailovs. She’d also said the Russian—
“Da. Edik can protect her in ways that you can’t, Lachlan. No disrespect to your family, I need my daughter safe.”
“I can pro—”
“Okay,” he barked. “That’s your game plan, da? Suit yourself.”
The call went dead. Angered, I worked my tightened jaw and glanced out the side-view mirror. My eyes scanned the other passenger’s mirror, then shifted toward the one on my side.
A flicker. Quick. Almost imperceptible.
I leaned forward slowly, senses sharpening.
There. By the gate that led toward the backyard—a figure. Just for a second, caught mid-step before slipping into the shadows.
My stomach dropped.
I stepped out of the SUV, ghost quiet. Gravel crunched underfoot. I scanned the opposite side of the condo, near the front door—no movement from Montana. No signs. Instincts screamed otherwise.
I rounded the front of the vehicle.
A baton swung from the blind spot near a hedge. The man behind it wore a ski mask and all black. I ducked just in time. The metal rod grazed the top of my shoulder. I countered with a gut punch, driving my fist into the attacker’s solar plexus. The man stumbled, wheezing.
I gripped the man’s head and slammed it against the SUV’s fender. His body crumpled inward, and he flopped to the ground.
A second shadow emerged, fast, from behind the A/C unit. He charged with a curved blade.
I pivoted, avoiding the first swipe. The knife grazed my ribs, slicing through the shirt. Hot blood bloomed against cotton. I grunted and slammed my knee into the attacker’s thigh. Not my aim, but he was quick on his toes. As I reached to kick him again, I stumbled over the first guy and fell backward.
The knife arced down toward me. I snatched a landscape brick from the path and hurled it point-blank.
It connected with a dull crack. The man dropped while I kip-upped to a stand.
That was when I felt him.
A third one.
I turned—almost too late.
This man’s knife was different from the other guy’s. I recognized it instantly—military style.
“Okay, an ambush. That’s how it’s gonna be?” I dropped into a stance. Weight balanced. Hands up. Elbows in, shielding my bleeding ribs. My older brother might have gone the military way, but I had Scottish Highlands warrior in me blood.
I glared at the man, masked in black neoprene. He circled me. I mirrored him.
A whisper of wind stirred the palm trees.
Then—boom!
The soldier exploded like a thunderclap, feinted low, and struck high with the knife. I dodged by inches, the blade gleaming in the moonlight. I threw a forearm block. The impact numbed my elbow. I launched a counterpunch to the jaw, but the soldier rolled under, hooked my ankle, and swept my legs out from under me. What the friggen hell?
The knife dove downward.
I twisted, dodging the fatal plunge, and grabbed the man’s wrist. We struggled. Muscles shaking, I pushed back against the steel pressing toward my throat.
With a guttural growl, I headbutted him. He grunted, a flicker of agony as the knife slipped from his grasp.
I used the opening to knee him in the side. Once. Twice. Then rolled off him.
We scrambled to our feet, bloodied, breathing hard.
No words. Just instincts.
The knife sat between us. As he started for it, I did too.
This time, he charged faster. Before he could reach it, I kicked outward. Damn. Almost connected with his face. He lunged toward me instead. Tight hooks to the body, a brutal elbow strike caught my temple and sent stars flashing across my vision.
I stumbled back.
The man struck like a coiled serpent—fast. Precise. I threw a punch. The ghost slipped it, ducked, and spun inside my reach. Never allowing me to catch a breath. I took the hits, blocked what I could. The blade slashed my hip.
I roared. Pain sharpened my focus. Pivoting, I slammed my forearm into the man’s throat, elbowing his jaw. The soldier reeled.
I tackled him, driving him through the side garden and into a wooden planter box. Dirt exploded around us. We rolled, kicking and slamming into stone pavers. The attacker raked his knife across my shoulder. I elbowed him in the ribs, reached for his wrist, and wrenched it back. The knife clattered to the gravel.