Page 68 of Fighting for Scarlett

Now she realized she may have been a little overly confident. Or more likely, too desperate to find answers to bring this to an end.

“Tate—”

“I know, I feel it too,” he said, even before she could express her concerns that maybe she had been too hasty in insisting they come rushing over here.

It had been a mistake.

More than that though, if she had underestimated their opponents, she wouldn’t be the only one to pay the price for that mistake. Tate would pay, too.

Was she willing to risk his life for answers?

No.

She wasn’t.

More than she wanted to find evidence to clear her name, she wanted Tate to be safe. It would be selfish to insist he continue when they both had a bad feeling and she’d been selfish enough already demanding he bring her here.

“We should go,” she said, nervously looking around.

“I thought?—”

“I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

But it was already too late.

The next thing she knew, the world around them was exploding, and the car was picked up and thrown through the air, landing with a bone-jarring thud that tossed her into unconsciousness.

January 18th

9:09 A.M.

Luis was going to kill him.

That was Tate’s first thought as he made the slow swim back to consciousness.

After returning to join Scarlett in the basement apartment, he’d put in a call to his team and asked if anyone could lend him a vehicle since his was destroyed. Luis had agreed to loan him the old Jaguar he’d bought and intended to restore.

Now the car was a mangled mess, lying on its side, yards from the entrance to the parking lot close to where they’d been instructed to meet with whoever had sent that email to Scarlett.

Of course, they had both known it was a trap, but he’d been expecting something more along the lines of an ambush. While he hadn't given Scarlett all the details of his plan because he hadn't quite been sure that she would be cooperative—he knew how desperate for answers she was—he hadn't ever planned on getting out of the car. His theory had been sooner or later, the mole would get antsy and come down to check on the parking lot to see if they’d arrived.

All he needed was one glimpse and this could all be over.

Instead, what he’d gotten was blown up.

Two cars ruined in three days, that had to be some sort of record.

Groaning as pain shot through his head, Tate shoved it aside and shifted in his seat, thankful for the invention of seatbelts. Without them, it was likely both he and Scarlett would have been thrown from the car and killed.

He’d survived, but had she?

“Scarlett?” he called out as he blinked to clear his vision.

When the car had been blown up, it had landed on its side, there was no fire—yet—but he could smell gas, so there was every chance that if they didn't hurry up and get out of there they would wind up dead.

Thankfully, the explosion hadn't been quite big enough to kill them outright.

Amateurs.

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