Rather than swing into one of the open spots in front of the Triple B, Gage drove around and parked in the alley near the back door. Precaution never hurt. Plus, ugly black storm clouds threatened and they'd at least have a quick run back to the truck if the sky opened up.

On a Tuesday night, the place was quiet, leaving half the tables open. A few regulars sat at the bar watching CNN, clearly engrossed in the latest political wranglings.

Randi stood at the register, poking at the screen, but raised her free hand in greeting. “Hey, you two. I’m expecting Britt any time now. He’ll be happy to see you. Sit where you like.”

“Thanks, Randi,” Micki said.

Gage grabbed his favorite table and slid into the seat against the wall so he could watch the doors.

One of Randi’s servers cruised by, dropped two menus, and took their drink orders. Gage opted for one of the craft beer specials and Micki went with a sweet tea. Did she even drink alcohol? As yet he hadn’t witnessed it, but there hadn’t been many opportunities.

In addition to her many secrets, there was a lot he needed to learn. Simple stuff. What kind of food she liked, her favorite sweets, assuming she ate sweets as well as baked them.

The front door opened and in walked Britt, still dressed in jeans, an untucked work shirt, and steel-toed boots. His usual workwear. He beelined for Randi, but she pointed toward the back table at Micki and Gage, so he detoured.

“Hey.” He pushed a hand through his shaggy blond hair, shoving it out of his eyes. “Didn’t know you were coming in tonight.”

Micki smiled up at her older brother, and suddenly all the tension she’d had on lockdown vanished. Her face softened, stealing the hard angles of stress, and Gage couldn’t move. Taking his eyes from her, the way he felt right now, would be a tragedy of the worst kind. This side of her, the relaxed, unfiltered side, made his chest hurt. A good hurt. The kind that made a man want to stay put awhile.

Britt leaned in and kissed the top of her head. “Jonah told me where you went today. I'm sorry you have to go through this.”

“It's all right,” she said. “It could have been worse. We should set up another family meeting.”

Gage glanced around, making sure the town gossips were out of earshot. “Britt, no offense, but we probably shouldn’t do this here. We’ll need to fill you in on some stuff.”

Dude, don’t ask me to explain.

Not here anyway.

Fully understanding the nonverbal signals, Britt held up a hand. “I’ll call you later.” He angled back, checking on Randi, and Micki touched his arm. “Do you want to join us?”

“Nah. I’m just picking up Randi. Looks like she’s about ready. I’ll take a rain check, though.”

“You’d better take a rain check,” Micki said. “I’ll hold you to it.”

“Mikayla, I'd welcome that.” In true older brother fashion, he cuffed her on the shoulder and made his way to the end of the bar, where he settled on a stool to wait for Randi.

The waitress dropped off their drinks and Micki sipped at her tea, taking in the room and fiddling with her straw, smacking it against the inside edge of the glass and stabbing at the ice. “Sitting here with you and talking to my brother is nice. I don’t feel…desperate.”

“Desperate?”

“Two weeks ago, I couldn’t imagine sitting in a bar, just talking. Now I can’t believe I did without it for so long.”

“Don’t think too hard about it. Just enjoy it.”

“Oh, I will, Captain America. Don’t you worry.”

Something popped in his chest. Day-am. He set his mug down and fought the urge to lean in, to touch her, to satisfy his craving to put his mouth on hers.

At least until someone dropped into the chair next to him. What the hell? He sat back, whipped his head to the dark-haired man.

Tomas.

Son of a bitch. Right in front of him, the guy had slipped in. Gage had been too busy fantasizing about Micki to even see it.

Dumbass.

Slowly, Micki shifted and all the softness, the relaxed easiness disappeared as fast as it had arrived.

Not now.

Gage pushed his chair back, facing Tomas and letting his hands dangle at his sides in case he needed them. “You’re not welcome here. Leave.”

Micki plowed right over that. “How’d you know we were here? I thought you went back to Vegas.”

Tomas ignored Gage, instead giving his full attention to Micki. “Look, we can still fix this.”

She let out a frustrated laugh. “Can we? Really?” She sat forward and jabbed her finger into the tabletop. “I’d lay odds you paid someone in this place to spy on me, and you think we can fix this?”

“Micki,” Gage said, “don’t talk to him.”

“No. It’s okay.”

It’s okay? What? She’d just spent two hours confessing her misdeeds—misdeeds that the guy across from her took part in—to a United States prosecutor, and somehow it was okay?

Not.

Ixnay.

Bullshit.

Tomas finally looked at Gage, a satisfied smirk in place. Smug son of a bitch.

He went back to Micki, holding one hand out. “I shouldn’t even be here. Before this gets nuts, tell him you’ll come back to Vegas. Come back and we’ll all talk it out.”

“Micki—”

She swung her head to Gage and held his stare for a long minute. “Please. I need to handle this.”

After everything they’d talked about, the conversations they’d had, ones she’d initiated by asking for help, suddenly she didn’t need him. Perfect.

But—all right. He’d see how this rolled. Not get twisted about it. Letting her take a stab at dealing with this asshole would probably help her. Allow her to, as she’d put it, move forward.

He sat back, still keeping his hands ready. His skull pounded. Damned headaches. Total hassle.

“Tomas,” Micki said. “Tommy, I’m not going back. I can’t do this anymore.”

“We’ve been doing this together for years. This is me, the guy who sat with you when your appendix blew up.”

“Come on, man,” Gage said.

Tomas turned, gave him a hard look. “Not. Talking. To you.”

“Stop,” Micki said, her voice carrying an edge sharp enough to slice metal. “Both of you.”

She might have been speaking to him, but she wouldn’t look at him. That alone sent his oh-shit radar into the red. “Look at me,” he said, forcing the issue.

Immediately, her shoulders flew back and the hardness he’d seen that first day, when he’d met her on her mother’s porch, roared back into her eyes. Everything about Micki, right now, had literally turned to stone. Jesus. Complicated woman.

But at least she’d finally looked at him.

“Don’t let him inside your head. You know how this works.”

“I’m fine,” she said.

Tomas jerked his chin at her. “I can’t be here long. Phil thinks I’m in Georgia.”

“You shouldn’t have come,” she said.

Wasn’t that the world’s largest understatement? And Gage had to sit here, like a good little boy, and listen to this bullshit when all he wanted to do was rip this guy's throat out. One good yank and—boom—done.

The Vegas contingent needed to leave her be. Whatever Tomas’s—Tommy’s—motives were, hell, he might be sincere in wanting to help Micki, but convincing her to go back to Vegas was the dead last thing she needed.

And who was Gage to be involved in this? The dead last thing he needed was to be in the middle of Micki Steele’s problems. This was the reason he hadn’t gone home to Iowa. The whole being everyone’s go-to guy. How the fuck did he wind up right where he’d fought so hard not to be?

Fuck me.

Suddenly, the meditation he'd done in the truck while waiting on Micki in Asheville wasn't cutting it and his eyeballs throbbed. Damned fatigue.

“Micki,” Tomas said, “Phil is losing his mind. Totally unhinged. He’s got your mother’s house bugged, for Christ’s sake.” He poked his finger at her. “You know he’d skin me if he knew I told you that. But I’m doing you a large on that one because you and me, we’re a team. Always have been. And I’m telling you, he won’t stop.”

Micki glanced at a fuming Gage. He didn’t like this. Not one bit. She had a news flash for him, because he couldn’t fix everything. She created this mess and she'd be the one to fix it. Certain things were her responsibility. Including making Tomas realize she couldn’t go back.

Really, neither should he. Once she signed the proffer agreement, Tomas would go to prison right along with Phil. Depending on the deal Owen negotiated, she might even have to do time.

All the years together, the camaraderie, as dysfunctional as it was, streamed in her head. Tomas had been more than a coworker. In him, she had had an ally. The one person who understood her life.

Now, he’d just admitted Mom's house was bugged. He’d broken Phil’s most valued rule and defied him. For her. Finally, the Tomas she knew—Tommy—was back.

“Thank you for telling me that.”

“Of course,” he said. “What’d you expect?”

“I don’t know. This is all crazy. I want my family back. Why do I have to choose?”

“Come on. You know better. I’m telling you, he’s losing his grip. Tell him you’ll come back and we’ll work something out that lets you visit every couple of months. Be smart about this.”

“Hey.” Britt walked up to the table and stood between Tomas and Gage, his huge looming presence stirring the already tense air.

She straightened up. “Hi.”

“Who’s this?”

“That’s her coworker,” Gage said. “From Vegas. He’s trying to talk her into going back.”

The glare Britt sent Tomas's way should have blown him to China. “She’s staying here.”

Micki circled a finger. “Britt, just so you know, your girlfriend has a spy in here. Probably a waitress or a busboy looking to make fast cash.”

Tomas rose from the table. “I’d love to sit around and talk this shit through with y'all, but I’m busy.”

He pushed his chair in, then put his hand out to Micki. Working on habit, she smacked it and they fist-bumped.

After watching the exchange with his jaw locked and his mouth zipped, Gage hopped to his feet. “You said you were leaving. Go.”

“Whoa, there.” Britt set one of his big hands on Gage’s chest. “Relax.”

Tommy rolled his eyes, clearly baiting Gage. And with his head injury, a brawl in the middle of the Triple B could land him in the hospital.

“Thank you, Tomas,” Micki said. “You should go now.”

“I'm going. Trust me on this, he won't give up.”

He headed to the door and her mind tripped back to her last day in Vegas, when he’d left the office and that same sadness, the weighty pull of loss and disappointment, pressed down on her. He'd been her friend, she thought. Now, she didn't know what to think.

God, this was awful.

This, this…moving on. Rebuilding. Starting over.

“You’ve got to be kidding me?”

The harsh growl in Gage’s voice snapped her from her thoughts. “I know you’re mad at me.”

“Mad at you? I'd love it to be that easy. I get over being mad pretty goddamn fast. This goes beyond mad. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing.”

“Settle down.” Britt clasped Micki's arm, lifting her from her seat, then shoved Gage to the back door. “Outside. We don’t need the B talking.”

Gage jabbed a finger at the door. “That guy doesn’t give a shit about you.”

Micki flinched at his uncharacteristic yelling just as a couple at the next table made a show of looking at them.

He pulled his wallet out, tossed a twenty on the table. “Forget it. I’m not doing this. I’m tired and my head hurts.”

Now he wanted to leave? To be a jerk. All because she’d had a conversation with a man she’d spent years working side by side with.

Men were dicks. Just total assholes.

“You know,” she said, “a little understanding right now wouldn’t kill you. You're pissy because I wouldn't let you save the day. Sorry, Captain America, some things aren't yours to handle.”

“Knock it off with the Captain America crap.”

“Why? You love it. You know you do. What is it, Gage? A fix you need? And here I am, the poor damsel in distress.”

He gawked. Just stood there with his mouth hanging open, and shame washed over her. Finally a decent man comes into her life and she lashes out at him. Way to go, girlfriend.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “That was mean.”

He shook his head. “Forget it. It's all bullshit anyway.”

“Of course it is,” she said, heavy on the sarcasm.

The blast of his half-insulted-half-enraged deadly stare set her back a step. Dammit.

Britt gave them another shove toward the door, but Gage wasn't ready to give up the fight.

“Since you showed up, I’ve done everything you needed. Plus some!”

“Guys,” Britt said, “shut up.”

She followed Gage, ignoring the curious looks from patrons. “Britt, we’re adults. Adults fight. If the gossips want to run with it, let them. I don’t care.”

“Well, I do. Now shut up.”

Gage pushed through the door, his pissy attitude going with him. Outside, in the blackness of the alley, a clap of angry thunder greeted them, and Gage whipped his head up. He swayed on his feet and set his hand on the hood of the truck to steady himself. He stood for a minute, looking down at the ground, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling. She’d pushed him too far and now he looked…sick. Ready to pass out.

What she didn’t want was this argument setting him back on his recovery. The stress couldn’t be good for a brain injury.

She moved closer. “Are you okay?”

The first fat drop of rain plunked on her head, then another on her nose. Gage finally looked up.

At Britt. Oh, no.

“Britt,” he said, “give us a second. I need to talk to your sister alone. Then I’d appreciate it if you could give her a lift home.”

Britt set his big hand on Gage’s shoulder. Her brother, always the protector. “No problem. Are you all right? Do we need to get you to a doctor?”

“No. I’m good. Headache. I’ll go home and close my eyes and I’ll be all set.”

“Fine. Call me if you need something, though. Got it?”

Gage nodded and Britt left them in the alley to finish their battle. Micki let the restaurant door close before she spoke.

“Please let me explain.”

“Explain what? How you just spent the past four days confiding in me, asking for help, fucking me, and now you want me to sit around and watch this guy play you? These people are animals, Micki. I’d like to know where he was when I found a dead rat on my car this morning. That’s what that prick wants to send you back to.”

“What rat?”

“Exactly! I didn’t tell you about it. I was afraid this might happen. That you’d get spooked and rethink the whole goddamned thing. That you’d decide it would be easier to go back. You will never be free of this guy if you go back.”

“I’m not going back. I told you that.”

“Yeah, you did. But somehow, sitting at the table, watching you talk to him, after what you’ve been through, I’m not sure I believe that.”

“Well, you should. I’m happy here.”

“Then why didn’t you kick that asshole out?”

That stunned her for a second. Tomas was her friend, he’d been her default family for years. Down deep, she loved him. They shared some weird version of a bond and maybe, even after the past few days, she couldn’t quite break free of it. Loyalty, no matter how misplaced, was fluky that way.

She held up her hands, opened her mouth and—stopped. What could she say? For years, denial had been her constant companion. Denial meant surviving, and as much as she didn’t want to go there again, the day had been stressful, had tested her in ways she hadn’t known existed. And now Gage wanted to interrogate her and yell at her and make her feel…what? Confused? Angry? Guilty?

No thanks.

She’d take being a loner in denial over that any day.

“Never mind,” Gage said. “When you figure out what you want, let me know. I’m not doing this back-and-forth thing. I can’t. You know these people are evil. You know it. And I’m not having that.”

Of course he wasn’t. He was, after all, Captain America.

Steaming mad, Gage fired the truck engine just as Micki strode back into the B. Goddamn drama. He didn’t need it. Or want it.

Maybe this was his fucking lot in life. Wherever he went, drama, drama, drama. He locked his fingers around the steering wheel and squeezed. Then squeezed harder. These last days had sent his nice, controlled life into a whipping frenzy. And he didn’t like it.

Liar.

With Micki he’d hit the Lotto, the big jackpot, the mother of all wins because he’d gotten the killer combo of great sex and a needy girl. Yep, that was him. Mr. Fix-It. The guy who thrived on strapping on his cape. And she'd just fucking called him out on it. Micki Steele had head-shrinked him.

And nailed it.

He couldn't even argue. Hell, that strapping-on-his cape feeling had pretty much been his undoing because the more he felt it, the more he wanted it.

Son of a bitch.

Damned old habits were easy to fall back on.

Dumbass. He’d never learn.

He let out a grunt, smacked the windshield wipers on, and shifted the truck into gear. He was getting out of here just in time for a mother of a storm to blow in.

Rather than make a right at the end of the alley toward Main Street, he went left. This time of day, Main Street would be activity central and he wasn’t in the mood to run into anyone. Particularly one of the Steeles. He’d shortcut it home, sit on his couch, and close his eyes. Get this motherfucking headache tearing him up under control.

Damned Micki. He didn’t know what the hell to do with her. And now he was in it. Knee-deep. Not only his relationship with her, but with her family. All of it wrapped around a job he’d taken so he didn’t have to return to Iowa and face his own family. He ran one hand down his face. Idiot. His entire life revolved around the Steeles.

“You did it this time, buddy,” he muttered.

At the corner of Belvue and Vine, the quiet streets were devoid of traffic and the only noise came from steady rain against the windshield and the smack of the wipers. Tucked way back here, the number of houses dwindled to single digits, leaving only the few residents traveling these roads. Still, given his distraction, the rain and crippling headache, he checked the intersection twice and lifted his foot off the brake.

The engine quit.

Oh, come on. Total suckfest of a day.

Gas. Couldn't be. He’d filled up in Asheville. He scanned the dashboard. Nope. All good. Lack of fuel wasn’t the problem. “What the hell, man?”

He shifted to park and tried the ignition. Nothing. Dead battery? God only knew when Reid or Jonah had swapped it out of the old beast.

He glanced up at an inky-black sky and a crack of thunder loud enough to shake the truck let fly. Engine had to quit now? Shit. He dug his cell phone from his pocket, scrolled his contacts for Reid’s number. Just as he was about to poke the screen, the doors on both sides of the truck flew open, the burst of activity startling him, sending adrenaline pouring from his brain. He swung his head left, found a wet Phil Flynn—in duplicate—reaching in. Gage’s mind was screwing with him again. He blinked, tried to clear his vision. No good. And Flynn had his hands on him.

Not happening.

He whipped his elbow up, aiming for the spot between the two noses. One of them didn’t exist, but maybe he’d get lucky and hit the one that did.

The blow skidded off Flynn’s damp forehead, knocking him back half a step.

“Phil!” Tomas said.

The truck rocked and Gage shifted right. Tomas already on the seat—dammit—doing a fast spin on his ass and bringing his legs up, about to blast Gage. Whap! Flynn clocked him. A solid hammerfist to the side of the head that made his vision swim again. Not the head. His body tipped forward and he grabbed the steering wheel, hanging on. Don’t pass out. Later, there’d be time for that. Now he needed to fight at least one of these assholes off so he could get out of the truck and have room to maneuver. On his feet, he’d take them both. No problem.

Of the two of them, Tomas was the bigger threat. Younger. In shape. Faster reflexes. But Flynn was closer.

Thunder roared again and Gage cocked his arm. Something slammed into his back, a kick from Tomas, sending a shot of pain clear up his neck, snapping his head forward. Momentum propelled him into the open doorway, his torso hanging over, the now pounding rain pelting him. Flynn grabbed him by the shirt, dragging him to the pavement.

On your feet, soldier.

Head still reeling from the blow, Gage hopped up, spotted three of Flynn and busted off the start of a Hail Mary. For this, he'd need all the help he could get.

He planted his feet, focused on the middle Flynn’s arm moving. Something in his hand. Gun. Gage stepped in to grab the barrel and twist the weapon away.

Zzzzppp. Searing shocks ripped into his thigh, the pain so intense his body stiffened—legs, arms, back—everything a solid wall. Stun gun.

The zaps continued and Gage let out a howl that shredded his windpipe. His brain stayed active, but his motor skills were gone and he fell forward, stumbling as he went over. He twisted sideways, taking the brunt of the landing on his hip rather than doing a face-plant.

The volts stopped. It’s over. That fast. Still, the pain, that absolute fucking agony, pounded him. He let out another roar. “Fuck!”

Goddammit, that hurt. Finally, his body relaxed and he curled his knees in. No time. Move. He rolled, ready to push himself up, felt a counterweight and looked down. Tomas held his legs.

And then the stick came. A quick pinch on his upper arm. Needle. He jerked his arm, but even as he did it, his head looped and everything went foggy. The men’s voices melded together, garbling into a whum, whum, whum.

Whatever drug Flynn had given him did the trick. His vision blurred, the edges increasingly fuzzy. He blinked, blinked again and then everything went dark.

A repetitive tapping sound and splintering pain behind his eyes drew Gage to consciousness.

Pain.

In his shoulders. Not the jabbing kind. This was different. Dull.

Shoulders? Huh.

Slowly, consciousness crept in and he battled the heaviness of his eyelids. Jesus, his head hurt. For a few seconds, the banging against his eyeballs paralyzed him, brought him back to that first day after his injury. The hospital.

Was he in the hospital again? That would well and truly suck.

The tapping continued above him, pelting his eardrums. Rain hitting the roof.

Where the hell was he?

He needed to open his eyes. Get his bearings. Figure out what happened. His eyelids might as well have been sandbags. Too damned heavy to lift. He’d wait another minute. Let his mind adjust. Then he'd make a plan.

Observe, analyze, act. The mantra from his Special Forces days came back, bringing his thoughts to order.

His stupor slowly subsided and a series of images cycled in his mind. The truck. Doors opening. Flynn and…Tomas.

Needle. They’d drugged him. Which explained the mush in his head. But he didn’t remember a beating and right now he had pain everywhere. Head, shoulders, ankles. Suck it up, buttercup. Flat on his back, eyes still closed, he moved his feet and…whoa. Something held them. What. The fuck?

Panic, sharp and cutting, sliced through the brain fog and his pulse went frickin' haywire.

Take a breath.

He took three even exhalations to force his heart rate down. Focus. Finally, he popped his eyes open. Dark room. He let his eyes adjust to the blackness and swiveled his head around taking stock. Hard floor under him. That explained the ache in his back and shoulders. He’d always hated sleeping on a hard surface.

He lifted his head, the heaviness almost too much until he let it drop back. Staring straight up, he lifted his right hand and…wait…his left went with it. Shit.

The sons of bitches tied his hands.

And his ankles.

Trussed up like an animal. Terrific.

He wiggled his hands and moved his feet, checking the tightness of the rope. Snug, but not enough to restrict blood flow.

Here we are, kids.

How long had he been out? A lack of windows in the room made it impossible to know the time, so he could have been unconscious for hours. Or minutes. Fighting to control his nerves, he inhaled, sucking in the dank smell of the room.

Observe, analyze, act.

The rope. What kind? Scratchy. Not too thick. Hemp. Maybe half-inch. If he had to choose rope to be bound with, hemp wasn’t a horrible option. With enough time, he could chew it enough to shred it.

A door came open and threw a shock of light that blinded him. He closed his eyes, turned his head sideways and slowly opened them again.

“Seems our guest is awake.”

Ignoring Flynn, Gage checked his bindings, his mind already ticking ahead to an escape plan. Wrists tied with a shorter piece and then a longer rope looped in the center. What the hell?

The lengthier rope had been slung over a crossbeam above his head, the end now hanging loose.

Not good.

Gage levered up to a sitting position and faced Flynn in his fancy suit and shoes. “When I get free, you’re dead.”

“Who says you’re getting free?”

I say.

Gage kept his mouth shut. Most negotiations failed due to diarrhea of the mouth. Even with Gage’s legs tied, all he needed was for Flynn to get a little closer and he’d wallop him. A good kick to the knee and he’d go down. Or…

“I need to piss.”

“Do it in your pants. You think I’m stupid? I’m not untying your feet.”

We’ll see about that.

Plan B. Feigning an itch, Gage rubbed his chin against the inside of his arm while he used the newly acquired light to scan a room no bigger than a small bedroom. With the exception of a metal-framed chair, a stepladder and an old workbench with a vise on it, the room was empty.

A vise.

Great.

But there was a second door. Along the back wall. Exterior door? Hopefully, he’d find out.

Flynn grabbed the chair and, keeping his distance, set it just out of reach of Gage’s legs.

He sat, crossed one leg over the other, and brushed lint off his pants. “This should have been so easy,” he said. “She’s been with me a long time. I trusted her.”

“No you didn’t. If you had, you wouldn’t have isolated her.”

Flynn let out a dramatic sigh. “You could never understand.” He waved it off. “None of it matters. The time for working it out is gone. The deal, as they say, is off the table.”

“She’s not going back.”

“We’ll see.” He worked his hand over his pant leg again. “I know her. She’s easy. Always has been. Which is why, whatever she’s done, whatever she’s told that lawyer of hers, she’ll recant.”

“It won’t work, Flynn. Jonah Steele is a big boy now. He’s got money to burn. Money that’ll buy him a lawyer and freedom. You’re done.”

“Oh, this isn’t about Jonah. I knew my time was limited there. But you’ll tell her to recant.”

Gage snorted. “Not likely.”

Phil stood and calmly set the chair back in the corner. “Then I’ll kill her. And her family. And I’ll let you watch. How does that sound?”

“Peachy.”

He stuck his head out the open door. “Tomas, let’s get this production started.”

Tomas entered and met Gage’s eye as he walked to the length of rope hanging from the crossbeam.

Refusing to give these pricks any body language, Gage sat still, his gaze shifting to Flynn who reached behind his back and pulled a weapon. Logic dictated that if they were going to shoot him, they’d have done it already. Whatever this production was, Flynn needed Gage awake for it. Otherwise, they’d have gotten rid of him lickety-split.

“Stay still,” Flynn said, the weapon trained on Gage.

Tomas stepped closer and Gage swiveled on his ass, trying to get his feet around and—whap—got cracked on the back of the head hard enough that his vision flashed white. Still hungover from the drug, he swayed sideways and Tomas made use of the time and…hoisted.

Gage’s arms flew up, the rope bringing his wrists over his head. Shit. Not only was he trussed up, he’d soon be hanging.

No way.

Leverage. If he could get some leverage, he’d yank the rope down from the crossbeam. And buy time.

He wrapped his fingers around the rope, made a move to tug and came face-to-face with the business end of a .45.

“One more time,” Flynn said, “stay still.”

Another yank from Tomas brought Gage’s arms up again.

Gage waited. Options: get shot or get hung.

They both sucked.

And getting shot would seriously hinder an escape. He glanced around the room again, spotted the workbench and the vise and a plan started to form. Better to have no holes in him while he attempted to get his ass out of this mess.

Tomas yanked again, this time harder. Joint shredding pain ripped at Gage’s shoulders. Son of a bitch. He hung there, arms overhead, gritting his teeth while Flynn set up the ladder and Tomas tied off the end of the rope around Gage’s wrist.

A wave of panic sent Gage’s mind spinning. Focus. But, damn, everything hurt.

“Okay,” Flynn said to Tomas. “Get your phone out. Time to have some fun.”

The e-mail from Tomas popped up just after 9:00. Micki dropped her head into her hands. The day, it seemed, and the drama that went with it, didn’t want to end.

After the grilling from Britt about what was going on with Gage, and her refusal to talk, Micki grabbed some cold chicken from the fridge, a giant glass of Mom’s lemonade, and retreated to her room. Where she’d sat mourning her ruined dinner date while messing with her software program and battling the urge to call Gage. Who was mad at her.

Well, she was mad at him, too. Sort of.

But not really.

Now that she’d calmed down, not to mention replaying the incident with Tomas in her mind a few thousand times, she could see where Gage might have misinterpreted her intentions.

Distance always gave clarity. No matter how many times she told Tomas her life in Vegas was over, from Gage’s viewpoint, her inability to send her old friend packing reinforced the idea that she could be talked into going back.

Which she couldn’t—wouldn’t—do. Steele Ridge was where she wanted to be.

Now to convince Gage of that. Which meant opening Tomas’s e-mail and telling him to never contact her again. Period. No exceptions.

She’d miss the fun parts of her relationship with Tomas, but the remaining ninety percent? That grew from Phil's threats and scheming. Never a healthy concept.

Unwilling to sacrifice her computer to a potential virus, she picked up her phone—the one she’d only had a couple of days—and tapped on the e-mail, her thoughts already forming the good-bye message. She needed to end this. To move on. Give living her own life a chance. A life that hopefully included Gage, the guy who’d managed to somehow understand her.

And not hate her for it.

The e-mail popped up. No message. Only a video attachment. Oh, boy. Here we go again. How many times had he asked her to grab a piece of footage for him? Hundreds? Thousands, even. She’d never sent the videos out, but denial only took a girl so far. Down deep she knew he used the clips as leverage.

Now she sat on the other side of it, anticipating what she'd see, her body stiffening as she prepared herself for the emotional hell about to kick in. Outside, a loud crack of thunder drew her gaze to the French doors. She’d raised the shades and was now met with blackness similar to her mood.

She clicked the file and a dark image appeared. She tapped the arrow to roll the video. A few seconds in, a flash of light shined on a door opening. Whoever was holding the device shooting the video moved left, angling the camera away from the light, pointing it down to a pair of hiking boots.

“Oh, no.”

She froze the image. Gage’s boots?

Please no. She clicked, letting the video roll so she could get a better look. The camera operator moved back, bringing more of the boots into view. Laces, hem of jeans. Rope.

She kept watching, willing her mind to be still. This was a highly organized production with Phil in the director's chair. He expected panic. She wouldn't give it to him. Not this time.

On the screen, the man's legs moved. Just an inch or two, but he definitely moved and her shoulders drooped a smidge.

The camera inched up, to his waist, and his shirt. Gage's shirt.

It's him. From the second she'd hit play, down deep she’d known, but had hoped…

Wait. All she saw was his chest. No arms. Images of Gage’s arms being severed flashed and Micki sucked in a hard breath. The resolve to stay calm crumbled and she grabbed a fistful of her comforter, squeezing so hard the skin over her knuckles stretched. What did Phil do? A groan shredded her throat.

He wants this.

Breaking her down was the plan.

The camera panned up, revealing Gage's shoulders, his jaw, his arms.

Relief brought a surge of energy plowing into her and she let go of the comforter, hopped off the bed and shook out her legs.

Finally, the person holding the camera, panned wide enough for her to get the full image. The money shot.

Gage, trussed up like an animal and hanging from the ceiling.

The scream Micki let fly brought Jonah bursting into the room. Already working with frayed nerves, the thwack of the door against the wall sent her reeling.

“Jonah!” She shoved the phone at him.

He snagged the phone, punched at the screen and watched, a horrified look transforming his features. “Holy God, this guy is insane.”

“We have to do something.”

“Oh, we’ll do something.” Jonah tapped at the screen. “You got Reid’s number in here? Never mind, got it.” He tapped a few more times and seconds later, the sound of Reid’s phone ringing echoed in the room via speakerphone.

“Hey, bro.”

“Are you at Brynne’s?”

“No. She’s out with her friend. I’m at the bunkhouse. Why do you sound spooked?”

Jonah whirled and headed for the steps, motioning for her to follow. She grabbed her laptop and hurried behind him.

“Micki and I are coming down. We’ve got a huge fucking problem.”