Page 78 of Under Fire

He was going to handle thingshisway.

“I think we need to have a conversation,” Dean said, cockily stepping up to him like they were evenly matched.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Dean put on a show of making a surprised face, then snapped, “Ah, too fucking cool, huh?”

Then, Dean lunged forward, lashing out his knife from underneath his jacket and hacking at Warren. Warren defended, pushing Dean off, easily sending him backward. That seemed to only piss the guy off further, and he clutched at his knife.

“Coming at me with a knife?” Warren challenged. “Must be too fucking scared to fight me like a man.”

“I ain’t scared of nothing!”

Warren laughed. “How about you drop the knife, and we can see about that?”

The expression that crossed Dean’s face betrayed the truth. The man was, in fact, scared of something.

“How about we make our own deal?” Dean said, circling.

Warren grew silent, standing strong, guarding Alisa in the truck. He wasn’t going to show any sign of weakness. He knew he had a problem. His back injury and his scar had been screaming at him all day. He had to bite his cheek not to wince in pain.

Dean continued, trying to look tough. “How about I kill you—and get Alisa. Does that sound fair?”

“Keep threatening. Keep giving me cause.”

He knew he could break the guy in half if he wanted to. He just needed a reason to make it plausible self-defense.

Overconfident, Dean jumped forward, slashing out with his knife again. Warren shifted to block him and punched him hard several times, winding the man and drawing blood from his face. Aggression was pumping through Warren’s veins, and his training had him on autopilot. He knew exactly what to do.

Well, that was until Dean lunged forward one final time, and Warren’s back seized. That was the moment he faltered. That split-second delay in defense proved to be the advantage Dean needed, catching his knife alongside Warren’s ribcage toward his back, driving hard in that vulnerable spot.

His fucking scar.

Enraged and losing his cool, Warren grabbed at Dean’s throat, holding him in mid-air with one hand while he punched the asshole into a state of semi-consciousness. He dropped the guy to the ground, and Dean moaned in pain.

“I’m going to do us all a favor because I’m a real nice guy.” Warren opened his wallet. “How much does she owe you?”

“I don’t want your fucking money,” Dean said. “It’s never been about the money.”

“No, it never was. You just used money to control her, to keep her under your thumb. Not anymore.”

“She’s not getting away this easy.”

Warren cocked his head, realization washing over him. Then, he let out a long laugh. Amused. He reached down, grabbed Dean at the throat and squeezed.

“She’ll get away with murder, if I say so. And so will I,” Warren said. “This is your last chance. How much does she owe you?”

Dean coughed up blood, grunting something about two hundred thousand.

Warren scratched two-hundred-and-fifty thousand on a blank check, rounding it up. In the memo, he jotted down—Alisa’s debt. He folded up the check and tossed it down on Dean’s chest, unceremoniously.

“Take it to the bank,” he growled. “And stay the fuck out of our lives. She’s mine now—and if you even so much as think about her again, you’ll be face down in a ditch.”

Shoving his wallet back into his pocket, Warren heard the distant roaring engines of motorcycles. As the sun dropped, Warren felt an odd chill—one he shouldn’t feel given the heat of that LA summer. His instincts didn’t betray him—and the distinctive noise of motorcycles grew closer, ripping down the Pacific Coast Highway.

Warren gazed over, realizing that the bikers were pulling onto the street, looking around. It didn’t take long before a few of the guys had caught sight of him—standing tall over the bloody body of their boss.

“That’s right,” Warren grumbled to himself. “I fucking beat your boss. Take a picture.”

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