Page 39 of Risky Passion

“Fuck you,” I snapped, and ended the call. “Asshole.”

I shoved the phone into my bag. He was lucky I was leaving town, or I would add him to my kill list.

I rounded the corner of the warehouse, and the warm, salty breeze tugged at my wispy gray curls. Shoving the annoying hair from my eyes, I adjusted the strap of my handbag across my shoulder and picked up my pace. The old boards beneath my boots groaned like a wounded beast, and the weathered walls boxed me in their shadows as I marched toward where I’d parked my motorbike.

In the distance, the setting sun streaked the horizon behind the jagged mountains with fiery orange and blood-red hues. Soon, the warehouse explosion would add its own fiery inferno to the scene.

The thought sent a blaze through my chest. The countdown was on. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I yanked my Indian motorbike out from between two graffiti-scrawled dumpsters, leaned it on the stand, and tugged my change of clothes from the saddlebag. Working fast, I stripped off the nurse’s uniform and flung it into one of the dumpsters. I didn’t care if anyone found it. By then, I would be long gone.

I pulled on a black shirt and pants, a leather jacket, boots, and a helmet. The gear felt like armor as I suited up, but everything seemed to take too damn long. My pulse hammered in time with the ticking clock in my head, like a jackhammer pounding against my skull. The drug haul was supposed to be on that truck before midday. That bitch pilot should be dead by now. I still hadn’t heard from Cooper to confirm he’d reached Angelsong.

Making a note to call him once I was on my way, I slid my phone into the holder mounted on the bike’s dashboard. The screen lit up, displaying the status feed to the alarm, which would trigger when that warehouse was breached.

It would take me about two hours to reach Angelsong. At some point, I would need to pull over along the highway, so I could livestream the moment the Alpha Tactical Ops team got blown to hell.

With a quick kickstart, the bike roared to life, and I drove out of the narrow alley. As I hit the main highway, the setting sun did what it always did . . . dragged up memories of Alice.

God, I missed her.

Killing Alice had been the hardest decision of my life.

I leaned forward, gripping the handlebars tighter, and the engine growled beneath me as I pushed the Indian to eighty miles an hour. The wind screamed past my ears, drowning out everything else as I barreled toward Angelsong . . . to Alice.

With every mile, I clung to the hope that the plans I’d set in motion today would hold together. Fuck that drug shipment . . . I didn’t need the money anyway.

Avenging Alice’s life was all that mattered now: my single, unyielding focus.

A gnawing feeling settled in my gut. All the curveballs I’d been thrown today felt like nothing more than the opening act.

The real storm was still ahead, and I had the sinking suspicion I was racing straight into it.

CHAPTER 12

Jaxson

The swamp pressedthick and suffocating around us, and although I hadn't spotted the bastards who had chased Tory since we raced away from the creek I’d pulled her from, the swamp had taken over as the new enemy. Crocs, spiders, sinkholes, endless mud. This hellhole was a damn buffet of hazards. Every splash and rustle had us scanning the growing shadows like we were in a warzone, expecting threats from all sides.

“How much farther?” Tory said behind me.

I glanced at her over my shoulder. She was a few paces behind, yet barely visible. “I don’t know. I thought we would’ve seen glimpses of the ocean by now.”

She swatted an insect away from her ear. “I can’t even smell the ocean yet. Can you?”

I shook my head. “I can’t smell anything but mud.”

She huffed. “Yeah, I’d kill for a shower.”

“Same.” Sweat trickled down my back as we pushed through a patch of undergrowth that was as wiry as steel wool.

I yanked out my phone, but the screen still showed "No Service." Once we hit open beach, the signal should come back . . . hopefully. Whitney would want to know Tory was alive, assuming he wasn't too deep in his evidence collection to check his messages. God knew thatman could tunnel-vision himself right through a hurricane when he was working a scene.

Mud clung to my bare feet, dragging me down with every step. Even Onyx’s powerful legs struggled against the suction of the muck. Every movement was a battle, vines snared us from below while the ones cobwebbing the trees overhead tried to strangle us. The whole place felt like one giant torture chamber.

We moved in single file: Onyx up front, me in the middle, Tory in the rear. Smart tactical choice, I told myself. Onyx could scout ahead while I kept Tory safe behind me. The fact that I couldn't see those long legs of hers helped my concentration. Except the image of her walking ahead earlier was already burned into my brain, and a distraction I couldn't afford. My job was keeping us alive, not thinking about how nicely her wet clothes clung to her body.

To her credit, Tory was holding her own. Every time she slipped on a mossy root or sank too deep into the mud, she caught herself, somehow staying upright. I couldn’t figure out how she managed it. After a plane crash and being hunted by a bunch of trigger-happy assholes, most people would be curled up in a ball by now. But not Tory.

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