CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Grant~
It took no time at all for their protective camouflage to pile into Helena’s limo and leave them exposed. Where the hell was Linc’s team? Protecting Maj. Fricking Gilmore, as like as not. Apparently, his Genevieve was expendable. Shift. Where the hell was Heinz?
He smelled the boar shifters before he saw them. They were lurking on either side of the doorway, hidden by enormous Christmas trees. He set his mate behind him in the relative safety of the niche created by a concrete pillar and the brick wall. Out of the shadows came a crouching figure intent on attack.
The boar’s outstretched hands were huge and bulgy. Brass knuckles spread lethally across his fingers. At least they had decided not to shoot. Grant ducked as his assailant lashed out with what he clearly believed would be two decisive blows. Not when you telegraphed your intentions. By the time Brass Knuckles’ fists arrived, Grant simply wasn’t there.
Behind him, he registered that the other boar was attacking Genevieve. His mate was strong and tough. Focus D’Angelo. He would be no use to Genevieve if he wound up injured or dead. He had to trust that she could cope until he dealt with his own assailant. The boar recovered his balance and charged.
Wild boars were dangerous predators. But they lacked the stealth of true carnivores. Like wolves and lions, they hunted in packs. Unlike those patient stalkers, they relied on brute strength and sheer numbers to bring down their prey. Phoenixes were raptors – deadly birds of prey. Finesse and intelligence in one fierce, powerful package.
Grant sidestepped his opponent, spun on his heel, and drove his doubled fists into the boar’s undefended back. The blow knocked Brass Knuckles sprawling. But it was like hitting concrete. Both his arms went numb. The boar found his feet and a sledgehammer crashed into Grant’s shoulder.
Grant danced backward avoiding a second blow. Sensation returned. Agonizing sensation. He pushed it aside. Time for a little brainwork. He danced around the hulking boar and wrapped him up from behind. The boar squirmed, certain he could break free. Grant yanked his neck to indicate how perilous moving was. The Bulgarian swore.
“Keep it up,” Grant offered amiably. “But you’ll break your own spine. Lose your weapons,” he hissed into his captive’s ear, as huge hands attempted to dislodge his grip.
Perhaps Brass Knuckles was a realist. Perhaps it was that Grant addressed him in Bulgarian. At any rate he carefully removed his heavy spiked weapons and dropped them. Grant kicked them away, let his prisoner go, and hit him with two kidney punches before he could recover.
Brass Knuckles bent over moaning. Grant punched both temples simultaneously and left Brass Knuckles still and silent on the wet sidewalk. His shoulder throbbed. Beneath his raincoat his sweating skin chilled as the wind found the split in his shirt and jacket.
But his Genevieve was dealing with the other boar herself. Her assailant was armed with a length of pipe which she was fending off with her swirling cloak. The brute looked baffled when she came out of her defensive niche on the attack. The cape flew through the air and landed on Pipe Dude’s head.
His weapon tangled in the heavy folds. The boar yelped in outrage. He ought to save his breath for fighting. Grant lashed out with one foot and connected with the thug’s midsection. But the heavy material softened his kick. The boar righted himself, tossed the cape aside and emerged swinging his pipe.
Genevieve kicked it out of his hand. The pipe rolled away and Grant picked it up. Lead. That bastard had swung a lead pipe at his woman. He was a dead man standing. Grant rammed it into the boar’s midsection. The brute doubled over gasping for air. At last the fricking cavalry arrived.
A beat-up panel van pulled up. Four black-clad men with grimy faces swarmed out. Brass Knuckles had a revolver in his armpit. Pipe Dude had a couple of throwing knives up his sleeves. The commandos relieved the boars of their weapons and sealed them in plastic bags. The two Bulgarians were handcuffed, gagged, and tossed in the back of the van. Gen’s sodden cape was bundled into a black sack and handed to her.
The leader addressed Grant. “Are we done here, Capt. Carson?”
Grant waved a hand at Genevieve who looked as immaculate as if she had not just been fighting for her life. “This is Capt. Carson,” he said proudly. “I’m just a civilian.”
“Yeah?” The commando fixed Genevieve with a look. “Report for debriefing at 0800 hours, Capt. December 27. Room 317. And in the meantime, this never happened. Understood?”
“Understood, sir.” Genevieve’s voice was crisp. She repeated her instructions word for word.
Grant noted she didn’t ask where Room 317 was located. Shift. Instead of flying nice safe combat planes, his mate was part of military intelligence.
The commando jumped into the van. Grant watched it trundle sedately into the night. He took the heavy garbage bag full of wet cape from Genevieve. For the first time he noticed that she was cold and trembling and one of her boot heels was broken. He put an arm around her and steadied her against his side. She relaxed. Paradise.
Of course, Heinz chose this moment to appear. Was he never to have a romantic moment with this woman? Grant helped Genevieve into the limousine, tossed her cape across to the other side, and climbed in to sit facing her. Heinz shut the door and returned to his seat. The limousine pulled away into the night.
Grant lowered the window between the passenger compartment and the driver. “What kept you, Heinz?”
“Frau Hoskins texted me, Herr Doktor Doktor, to pick you up at 2200 hours.” Heinz was genuinely puzzled and affronted.
“Sorry, Heinz. I guess we got our wires crossed. You had better take us to the hotel.”