Page 23 of Tactical Lies

Son.

He’d had a son.

One he should have loved and protected in the same way he should have loved and protected its mother.

Blocking another blow, he delivered one of his own and dropped the man in front of him. The others cheered and laughed at their unconscious friend, and he prepared himself for the next one to take his turn.

Seemed like these men were slow learners.

Instead, the one who appeared to be in charge waved a hand at the others. “Put him away.”

Good.

He was glad to be done with this stupid game. Connor was anxious to get back to Becca and tell her all the things he’d been trying to find the words to express in the hours since she’d confessed that her baby was his.

Something prickled against his skin as he was shoved back toward the tent where Becca was still waiting, alone and afraid. A sense of unease. One he’d felt many times before over his career, and one that always spelled only one thing.

Trouble.

There was not a doubt in his mind that something was wrong. He just didn't know what.

As soon as the two men dragging him back to the tent lifted the flap, he knew what it was. There were two moving shadows inside and there should only be one.

Connor didn't hesitate.

In one smooth move, he slammed his elbow back into the gut of one of the men behind him, shoving the air from his lungs. While he dropped, Connor spun and grabbed the head of the second man, snapping his neck. Without pausing, he did the same to the gagging man hunched over beside the body of his friend.

With both of those men dead, he rushed into the tent.

A man was shoving to his feet, fumbling with his belt and Connor saw red. All the rage he’d felt toward Dylan who had stolen so much from Becca that he hadn't been able to find an outlet for since he’d never had a chance to get his hands on the man, now zeroed in on this target.

The scream he couldn’t allow out since it would bring every man not passed out drunk rushing right toward the tent echoed through his head as he lunged for the man who had dared to put his hands on Becca.

Death.

The man had to die.

There was no other option.

Nothing else would satiate the fury burning inside him.

Everything else in the world faded into a mess of blood and torn flesh as Connor rained down blow after blow. It was only when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder that he finally stilled.

“It’s okay, Connor. He didn't rape me. You stopped him before he could,” Becca’s soft voice penetrated his anger.

“He touched you,” he growled, breathing heavily, so much anger still in his body that he was vibrating with it.

“He did. But he didn't rape me. Because of you. Because you stopped him before he got a chance. He’s not Dylan.”

“Not Dylan,” he echoed. Not that the man deserved any less punishment than the man who had raped and almost killed Becca. The man who had been sentenced to only fifteen years in prison even though he’d destroyed Becca’s future as surely as if he’d ended her life. The man who would be getting out in just a few short years and Becca would be forced to live the rest of her life knowing her rapist was a free man.

“Not Dylan,” Becca repeated.

“I should have killed him for you,” he said, spinning to drag Becca into his arms. While she came willingly, she didn't lift her arms and hold on to him. That didn't stop him from crushing her against him, unable to let her go. Needing to feel her small frame tucked against his for reassurance that she was still alive. She might hate him, but she wasn't dead, and that was all that mattered to him.

“I didn't need you to kill him, Connor. I never needed that. All I needed was you,” Becca’s muffled voice spoke, her face pressed against his chest.

“And I failed you. I left. I’m so sorry, Becca.” He willed her to understand how deeply he regretted that one moment when he’d lost control. If he could take his regret and shove it inside her, she could see how honestly he felt those emotions. It was desperation, he needed her to understand, to know just how sorry he was.

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