Page 119 of Ricochet

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Sweat poured down Adelia’s back. Her boots weighed more with each stride. The final block was ahead, and it gave her renewed strength to run faster. Every time she looked over her shoulder, Adelia nearly tripped, and if anyone saw her tearing down the suburban streets, they’d likely call the cops.

Her instincts were off. Did she even have them to start? Her life revolvedaround motorcycle tailpipes and bourbon-fueled compound parties. She knew enough about banking and technology to get herself killed, but she wasn’t sly like Victoria with her private investigating skills or a master of motorcycle gang politics like Seven. Nope. Adelia was good with a gun and swift to serve up liquor. She had a vendetta to avenge, and that was it.

Two houses away from the safehouse, and she downgraded her jog to an uneasy, dragging trot with her arms hanging loose and her breath gasping, and she stared at the house to be sure it was the correct one. The new car was gone. Colin had left? Was he searching for her or just gone? Who would blame him for leaving…? She wouldn’t. She’d done enough to drive him away.

Hell, she had issued a threat against one of his clients.Maybe he was headed back to Delta to share what she had said.

Semi-hopefully but having no reason to be, she stepped up to the front door and tried the handle. Locked. She banged on the door then tried the doorbell and went back to knocking and banging. “Colin! Hey!”

No answer.

Exhausted and out of ideas, Adelia leaned against the door and let her face smoosh against the smooth wood. Backand forth, she slapped the door. Pathetic, exhausted tears threatened to make an appearance.

She and Gloria Astor had a game of cat and mouse, and Gloria Astor was going to win. Her person had shot Colin, and now, they were smart enough to track her phone call to Javier down while she had nowhere to go but outside an abandoned safe house.

Maybe she deserved to die. Too many stupid mistakes.

Adelia thumped her head against the door.No.If she was going to die, Mayhem should kill her, not Gloria Astor. Adelia had done too much to survive trafficking to fall dead to a trafficker’s bullet.

She thumped her head harder.

“If you keep hitting your head, that will be one ugly goose egg.”

Adelia spun, adrenaline kicking self-pity down several notches, and she put up her hands like shemight block a blow. At least she now knew that—staring at the unknown man—no matter how deep in the pits of pity she might go, her fighting spirit would jump up when needed.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Adelia.”

“Who are you?” Her hands lowered an inch.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Maybe she recognized the man before, but maybe not. He wasn’t anyone she’d ever met. His warm mahoganybrown eyes, just a shade lighter than his skin, were too memorable to have been close and not remembered. His aura should have screamed danger, but he conveyed a charismatic trust without even offering a smile.

“I’m sorry—” Her voice cracked as Javier’s reminder to trust no one surfaced in her mind. She cleared her throat. “I just locked myself out.” He took a confident stride forward, and Adeliatried to step back, simply bumping into the house again. “You’re not looking for me.”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

Her fingernails scratched against the door. “No thank you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you—”

“That’s never the most believable conversation opener. You should go.” Then thinking better of it, she went back to her original story, not like that really mattered. “My husband will be homesoon with my keys. Any second, really. I’m just locked out.”

“We need to talk before Colin gets back.”

She couldn’t form words. Her mouth fell open before her mind caught up, and she stuttered, “How do you—who—please leave.”

“I don’t want to scare you, and like I said, I am not here to hurt you. I simply want to talk to you.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Deacon Lanes.” He walked the remainingdistance between them.

“Mr. Lanes.” All the trust she’d felt before was gone now that she could extend her arm and touch his broad chest. It was as though he’d been capable of creating an emotional mirage.

“Deacon is fine—” He twisted and roughly backed her to the door. “Go home. This conversation isn’t with you.”

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