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)
I dove for it.
Too slow.
The masked man kicked it away and yanked me by the collar, wrapping one arm around my neck in a chokehold. I clawed at the arm, vision dimming. He’s gonna end you, Lach! Buck up!
Natasha’s face swam in my mind. The Bratva Tsar just called … a warning. And he’d sent a ghost to kill me.
21
LORENZO
Lachlan drove his heel into my shin, again and again. Desperate. Furious. Animalistic. I grunted but didn’t release. He was good. Trained, even. But not like me. Not shaped by war. Didn’t get badass in black ops and Marine Raider survival.
Still … I had to give it to him.
The guy didn’t want to die.
And a part of me—some annoying sliver that would’ve died protecting Jamie—didn’t want his brother to die either.
For Jamie’s sake.
For the years he watched my six in places uncharted on any map.
But Lachlan was making it real hard.
With a backward snap of his skull, he cracked my nose. Sharp, loud. White-hot pain exploded across my face. I exhaled, loosened my grip.
We broke apart, both panting.
Lachlan rolled his shoulder. I’d seen how that petty thug I’d paid off earlier had attacked that exact spot minutes ago. Dislocated? Maybe. Weak? For sure.
I zeroed in on that shoulder. One clean break and the advantage would be mine again.
“Who sent you?” Lachlan growled low, voice a rasp from the chokehold.
Confusion swam behind his fury. Behind those eyes, so much like my brother-in-arms. My brother … Jamie. I froze.
Lachlan’s snarl came out explosive, breathy. “Who. Sent. Ye?”
There it was. The full Scott. Like Jamie when pissed. The same snarled vowels and weighted threats. I almost smiled. I stared at him, said nothing. Okay, you are practically blood of my blood. Jamie and I’d swapped blood. We were closer than any throwaway foster siblings I once knew.
I saluted. A casual, mocking flick of two fingers at my brow. The same way I had the day Jamie got his Silver Star, but it meant something back then. Tonight, it was a middle finger dressed in tradition.
Then I moved.
I burst forward, boots silent on gravel. Vaulted onto the trash bin, shoved off the wood-slatted wall with my gloved hand, and cleared the six-foot fence with ease. Gravel crunched beneath me on the other side.
I didn’t run.
Instead, I crouched in the shadow of a Joshua tree, heartbeat and breathing steady. I waited. Watched.
Through the gaps in the fence, I saw Lachlan stumble, then lean on the fence post. His shirt clung dark and wet to his frame, blood-soaked cotton.
A blink brought me back to a different desert. Afghanistan. Jamie and I, both saturated in blood. We’d laughed through shrapnel. A different life. A different loyalty.
Now, I wasn’t his brother.
I was the wedge.
Lachlan struggled to pull himself over the fence, teeth a gritted line.
While I jogged around the adjoining condo, I shot out a quick text to a few girls I’d met at a bar in the Westgate Entertainment district last night. Cute, but desperate.
ME: U ready to meet the Scot & Big Country?
TRINA: You forreallll? The SCOT? THE SCOT? Lachlan MacKenzie. AND MONTANA … BIGGGGG COUNTRY!
ME: Yep.
TRINA: Send the addy.
ME: Gimme a few. Just get dressed look pretty.
The lady sent me so many emojis, I suppressed the desire to block her number. For now, I’d wait until Lachlan got rid of—wait. He wasn’t like his family. Not that the media knew much of them since he kept a low profile. Would he get rid of the bodies?
Would he … call the cops?
I rubbed the side of my fist into my eyes and sighed, getting into my truck.
Another hour later, Lachlan drove down the street where I’d parked near the stop sign, the figure of the other baseball player at his side. My brows darted upward. Montana? They did so much promotion together, I assumed their friendship was a publicity stunt. Maybe they were really good friends?
Their faces appeared somber.
I almost considered calling the cops.
But I put my truck into drive and drove back toward their condo while texting the girls periodic updates to hype them up. I parked a few houses down. Two hours passed, and the baseballer’s rental slid up the driveway. Great. After another thirty minutes—Lachlan and Montana would want to recuperate—I shot off a quick message to Trina and her friends. Pressed Send with a chuckle. “Lach, our girl is not putting out, so I understand the booty call.”
In no time, headlights lit the driveway. A car door slammed. Then another. High-pitched laughter filled the air.
They were here. Half-naked. More than half, really.
Perfect.
I angled my lens from across the street, crouched behind a parked van.
Flash.
Flash.
Two girls leaned over the hood of the baseballers’ ride, taking selfies. The third knocked on the front door, adjusting her micro dress, which showed more side-boob. Her voice rang out. “Montana! Lachhhhhhh!”