Bridgette sat in Hank’s kitchen, coffee mug clasped between her hands, the steam distorting the couple of bubbles that floated across the brown surface. She’d been staring at it ever since Sam had given it to her after things had quieted down, and the police and paramedics had left with the men they’d apprehended. She didn’t know how long it had been, just that she couldn’t seem to focus on anything else—as if the coffee held the answers to all the questions tumbling through her head.
Eight men. Nine if she counted the one who’d gotten away. All coming for her.
If anyone had suggested Alex Stevens would send an arsenal of gang members to kill her a couple of weeks ago, she would have laughed at the idea. Hell, she would have laughed at it two days ago. It was just too…surreal.
She forced herself to swallow, biting back the gagging cough that threatened to rasp free. The last thing she needed was to have the men look at her as if she’d completely lost her mind. Lost her ability to drink a simple cup of coffee. God knew, she’d already given them plenty to question.
Bridgette cringed inwardly when she reran her actions from this morning. It was bad enough she’d been borderline catatonic last night. Had needed Sam to vanquish her demons—had begged him to make love to her. But this morning…
She’d been fine—had managed to remain calm—until the sniper had landed a slug in the wall between them. After that… She remembered following Sam outside. Weaving their way through the forest. Waiting as he eliminated one threat after another. When he’d told her to run if he got hit, she’d thought he was being overly dramatic. A way to scare her into following his orders without thought, without question.
She’d been wrong. Again.
He’d been serious. Deadly serious, it had turned out. The men had been armed—willing to kill anyone and everyone who got in their way. If Sam and the others weren’t trained soldiers—if they hadn’t faced far graver situations on the battlefield—they all could have been killed. And it would have been her fault.
The guilt. The shame over not telling Sam about the incident in her office building. The fear of having more blood on her hands. All of it had come crashing down on her as the first bullet had struck the drywall.
After that…she’d barely spoken. Barely done anything other than comply. But not because she’d tuned out due to fear. That bullet had somehow flicked a switch inside her brain, and all the memories from that night with Brock had come flooding back. She remembered it vividly, now.
The force of his knuckles against her jaw. The crushing blow of the shelf against her head. How his boot had struck the same spot on her ribs five times before he’d been satisfied she wasn’t getting up. Every detail, every second imprinted on her brain. But it wasn’t just his actions.
She remembered his words. How he’d raged above her, pointing out every weakness, every flaw he’d obviously found in her. How she’d betrayed him. Teased him. He’d straddled her multiple times, ripping at her clothes, calling her a slut. Then, he’d vanished, and she’d thought he’d left, only to blink to find him standing over her, again. He said he needed to take extreme measures to ensure she didn’t do this to another man. That it was his responsibility to put her in her place. To make an example out of her.
The knife had glinted off the one lamp she’d left on so she wouldn’t come home to a dark room. So she’d feel a sense of security. The blade had burned going in. But cold, not hot. They’d found a small wedge of the tip embedded in one of her ribs. She still had that piece. The only link to a crime that would forever remain unsolved in the eyes of the law. Three years of law school and six more working as an attorney, and she still couldn’t prove anything.
He’d won.
A hot drop splashed onto her pants, and she shook away the thoughts, cursing when she realized she’d split coffee on herself. That her damn hands were trembling so bad she’d sloshed liquid over the lip. She needed to get a grip. Stop letting the past interact with the present. She’d already had a few fleeting flashbacks during their escape. She didn’t need any more.
Bridgette placed the cup on the table, finally dragging her gaze to the window. Snow still fell in lazy fat flakes from the sky, erasing the evidence from their encounter. Soon, even the blood would be covered.
She swallowed, feeling her throat ease slightly. Unlike that night, today hadn’t ended in tragedy. Thanks to Sam and the others, justice had prevailed. They’d not only stopped the attempt on her life, they’d greatly diminished Stevens’ ranks. And, if she played her cards right—did the one thing she was good at—she’d have more ammunition to throw his way.
While Sam could outsmart the enemy in a war zone, she could make the devil, himself, sign over his soul as part of a deal. That’s why she’d gotten a shot at the US Attorney’s office. She had a knack for getting people to talk. To swing deals that benefitted her client. In the past, it had profited the defendant but now… Now, she played for the other side and stopped at nothing to get the conviction she deserved.
Eight men. She’d bet her ass she’d get at least four of them to agree to testify against Stevens. True, she might have to swallow enough of her pride to offer witness security, but they were just pawns. Small fish in an ocean of sharks. And she wanted the mother-fucking alpha shark. The guy behind more death and destruction than all of his minions combined.
If that meant some of these men wouldn’t have to pay for trying to kill her—trying to kill Sam and the others—she could live with that. As long as Stevens paid.
“Can I get you more coffee?”
Bridgette gasped, startling to her feet as she snapped up her gaze. Her chair fell against the wall, and she had to scramble to right it before it crashed to the floor. Ice stood at the side of the table, brows drawn together, a red hue on his cheeks.
He muttered something under his breath as he raised his hands, palms up. “Whoa. Sorry, Bridgette. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She released a shaky breath, leaning against the wall in the hopes of staying on her feet. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
He grimaced. “Old habits. Noise gets you killed.”
“Right.” She smoothed the wrinkles on her shirt, cursing at the way her hands trembled. “Everything okay in there? You guys have been talking for hours.”
“Tying up loose ends. We’d hate to miss something and put you at risk.”
“You’re worried about the man or men that got away. That they might try, again.”
Ice’s lips twitched into a smile. “They can try all they want, sweetheart. They won’t get past us.”
“Sweetheart?” Sam punched Ice in the shoulder as he moved in beside him. “Are you making moves on my girl?”
His girl.
Her stomach somersaulted. God, she hoped his claim was true. But he’d been noticeably distant since they’d returned. Though, it was probably more that he’d been immersed in work—tracking down leads—than he was avoiding her. But she also knew he was itching to find out why she’d been so quiet. Why she hadn’t challenged any of his orders earlier. But she hadn’t been able to voice her reasons, yet. Wasn’t sure she was ready to tell him everything—how every shot had flashed an image from that fateful night. That she was drowning in guilt over keeping secrets. That a part of her was still scared shitless that making him angry would lead to a reenactment of that night.
It was stupid. She knew it was. She believed wholeheartedly that none of the men in the house would ever hit a woman out of rage—least of all Sam. But it was hard silencing the voice in her head—the one that had worked hard to keep her safe since Brock. That had been the reason she hadn’t given up.
But Sam deserved to know. She knew that. And, as soon as her brain finished processing everything, she’d tell him.
Ice merely shrugged. “I know a catch when I see it. And I’m not above trying to convince her I’m the smarter choice.”
Sam snorted. “Right. Have you forgotten that weekend in Paris?”
The color drained from Ice’s face. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me, big guy. Besides, I come bearing good news. We found a keycard in one of the thug’s pockets for a hotel in Livingston. The sheriff there just swarmed the place, and he found our missing guy. Black truck out front has matching treads. Thinking this is over. And, once you work your magic on those men…”
Sam whistled. “Stevens won’t be able to touch you with a ten-foot pole without being charged with even more atrocities. Looks like you won, darling.”
His words bounced around in her head for a few moments before slowly sinking in. They’d caught the other man. The nightmare was over. Or, at least, this one was over. Sam was right. Once Stevens learned his attempt had not only failed, but his men had been arrested—he wouldn’t be able to risk another attempt on her life. It would be too obvious. And it could be the difference between being put away for life or getting the death penalty. Something she hadn’t been pushing for, so far, but she knew her replacement—Jeremey Brenner—would. Especially if she was killed.
The thought made her pause. She hadn’t considered that before. Hadn’t thought through how the trial would change if Stevens had managed to kill her. Which only confused things more. Why would Stevens want her dead if her successor would seek a harsher sentence?
Ice yelling a hearty, “Hell yeah,” interrupted her line of thought.
Sam’s smile faded a bit as he stared at her. “You okay?”
She plastered on one of her fake smiles. “Fine. I guess I’m just…surprised. In shock, maybe. After everything, to hear you say I’m safe—”
“Theoretically. I’m still going to shadow you until the trial starts and your office has police protection. But it looks promising.”
“Of course.” She wanted to ask what happened after that, but Hank yelled for Sam and Ice to join him in the other room.
She mouthed her thanks, again, watching them leave. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly, and she sank into the chair. She could think through things, later. Puzzle out the aspects that were still bothering her when her mind had cleared. After she’d told Sam everything, because if she had any hopes of continuing what they had started, she didn’t want to keep secrets from him.
Not anymore.
A genuine smile curved her lips. She’d make it up to him. And she’d start by asking him to teach her a tougher form of self-defense. Maybe how to shoot better. Not that Jack had been lacking, but Sam definitely had a few scary tricks up his sleeve. Ones she could learn to make herself a harder target for anyone else who might come gunning for her.
She stood, finally feeling more like her old self. It was time to take back her life. Make plans for the future that involved more than just endless cases. If she played her cards right, Sam wouldn’t be a distant memory once the trial started. He’d be part of her life. Part of her future memories.
Warmth spread through her chest at the thought, and she realized she was ready. Scared but ready.
She felt lighter as she headed for the other room. She wasn’t sure what the men were talking about, but she needed a few moments alone with Sam. Surely, the others would understand, especially with everything winding down.
She picked her way down the hall, their low gravelly voices finally rising above indistinct murmurs. She slowed as she neared, Hank’s words bringing her to a halt.
“I can’t believe how close we came to not being involved in this one. Can you imagine how it would have gone down if George Hayward hadn’t hired you? If Bridgette had managed to kick your ass out?”
She frowned. True, she hadn’t understood how severe the situation truly was, but there was something in his tone that put her hackles up. Made her stay in the shadows lining the hallway.
“Can we not go there?” Sam’s voice sounded strained. “Just thinking about Bridg facing those monsters alone…” He sighed. “I’ll have nightmares. Guaranteed.”
“Good job you’re such a sweet talker.” Ice crooned the words, and she suspected he was goading Sam.
“Jealous, buddy?”
“Fuck, yeah, despite the fact you only convinced her because you got lucky. You do realize you can’t charm every client into your bed as a means of getting their cooperation, right? Though, it worked like a hot damn.”
Her stomach dropped, followed by her heart. Had she heard Ice right? Had he really implied Sam had only slept with her as a means of getting her compliance?
Sam chuckled. “Extreme circumstances call for extreme measures. And I wasn’t going to lose this one, no matter what it took.”
Ice replied, but she didn’t hear the words. It was just noise mixing in with the frantic thrash of her heart. The hallway narrowed, and for a moment, she thought she might pass out. Heat billowed up from her feet, and she had to brace her hand on the wall to stay upright.
Extreme circumstances. That’s what he’d said. That she’d required extreme measures. Just like Brock…
Bridgette took a stumbling step toward the kitchen. She couldn’t talk, could barely breathe. Voices mixed together—Sam’s and Brock’s—but it was Brock’s sadistic laugh that echoed in her head. That faded the hallway into ghosted images of that night. The knife glinting above her. Her blood smearing across the floor as she forced herself to crawl over to her phone. She tried to push them out, but it only blurred her vision more. Mixed old and new memories together until she couldn’t separate the two.
It was happening, again. Sam had been playing her. All this time. Using their history, their obvious attraction, as a means of controlling her. He’d said he cared, but he’d meant about his job. About the success of his mission. That’s what it came down to. A mission, and she’d been it. It wasn’t love for him. Wasn’t a future in the making. It was a means to an end. And she’d fallen for it. Had believed every word. Every caress. No wonder he’d been distant. He was buying time until he could break it off. Let her down easy.
She shuffled back, finding herself standing by the side door. Her bag with her laptop and purse was sitting on the counter. One of the men must have brought it in after going back to their hotel last night, just as Sam had promised. The keys to the Jeep were lying beside it. Why wouldn’t they be? Sam had her full cooperation. She’d personally promised him she wouldn’t try to ditch him. It was the last thing he’d suspect, especially after everything that had gone down.
She grabbed the keys, tossed her bag strap over her shoulder, then slowly opened the door. Not a creak. Not a hint of a sound as she stepped outside, shutting away the murmur of voices just drifting down the hall.
She moved quickly, sticking to the side of the house as they’d done earlier. She paused when she reached the corner, looking at the windows fronting the yard. She smiled. Hank had boarded over the broken glass, which meant they couldn’t see her without moving to another room.
Or opening the door. Which could happen if they heard the engine.
Snow fell harder around her as she ran across the yard, moving to Hank’s truck, first. She knelt beside one tire, quickly removing the cap then pushing on the valve, letting out some of the air. She repeated the same procedure on Ice and Kujo’s vehicles. Though, she suspected it wouldn’t take long for the men to change the tires or pump them back up, it would be enough to give her a head start.
Sam wasn’t the only one who knew how to drive in the snow or make good time. She’d been raised in Montana, and her Jeep hadn’t let her down, yet. A quick stop in Livingston to pick up a few things she needed for work that she’d left behind, and she’d be off.
Home. Seattle. Alone.
A hint of doubt scratched at her consciousness, but she ignored it. Sam, himself, had said it was over. Sure, he’d said he’d stay with her until the trial, but she knew it was mostly for show. Proof for her father he’d gotten his money’s worth from Brotherhood Protectors.
She darted over to her Jeep. Thankfully, it had warmed up enough the locks had thawed since Sam had tried it earlier. The seat creaked as she leaned it forward in order to toss her bag in the back before slipping in behind the wheel. A way of nausea rolled through her stomach as she put the key in the ignition.
It felt wrong. Running away. Regardless of his intentions, Sam and his buddies had saved her life. Maybe, if she went in, confronted Sam…
The sick feeling increased. How could she face Sam and not hear those words ringing in her head? Not feel her chest constrict as she tried to breathe? Maybe in time, but, right now—she was raw. Like there was a live wire sparking against her skin.
She started the car then threw the gear shift into reverse. She backed up carefully, avoiding over-revving the engine as she spun the vehicle around then took off, not even glancing in her rearview mirror.
The old Bridgette was back. Cold. Calculating. Cutthroat. And she wasn’t going anywhere, again.