Page 56 of Her Dirty Defender

“Touch her again,” Beckett says, his voice a quiet rumble that raises goosebumps along my arms, “and you won't get back up.”

Chapter15

Beckett

I end my call with George and dial Sheriff Lucas.

“Lawson? This better be good.”

“I have the proof,” I say, getting straight to the point. “A sealed report from six years ago. Two months before you took Wade on. He targeted a fellow officer. It was buried so deep it took my contact a miracle to find it. Same pattern as the other women. Same escalation.”

The sheriff is silent on the other end of the line, but I sense the shift. Not belief. Not yet. But a crack in the doubt.

Finally, he speaks. “You’re sure?”

“I wouldn’t be calling if I wasn’t. I’m on my way to Clover Canyon Auto. George is at the shop. Meet me, and I’ll explain everything.”

“I’ll come,” he says, doubt still threading his voice. “But if you’re wrong, Lawson…”

“I’m not,” I snap and kill the call.

Thirty minutes later, I pull up outside the shop. George’s truck is parked there, along with a car I don’t recognize. I’m instantly on high alert. And then I hear the crash of metal striking concrete, followed by George's voice, sharp with warning. A man's low, threatening response cuts through the air. Glass shatters.

I hit the workshop at a sprint, the door crashing open like thunder.

What I see stops my heart cold.

Marcus is inside, too close to her. His hand is at his hip, holding a gun. George is between him and the exit, her stance defiant, a wrench clenched white-knuckled in her fist. Her phone is on the floor, the screen flickering, tools scattered everywhere.

Rage tears through me like a detonation. My voice is low, steady, lethal. “Touch her again, and you won’t get back up.”

Marcus turns, smiling like this is some kind of game. “Your guard dog has arrived, George. Looks like we’re leaving sooner than expected.”

He swings his gun toward me. He thinks he can take me. He doesn’t know how wrong he is. Who he’s up against.

With a scream worthy of a banshee, George tackles him as his attention is diverted to me. His weapon flies from his hand, skittering across the floor.

His eyes flash in panic, and in a desperate move, he grabs a rag from the bench and throws it at my face before lunging for the open door.

Too slow.

I intercept, grabbing his jacket and driving him into the tool cabinet. It buckles under the weight. Tools crash to the ground. I don’t care.

He swings wild. Biting, clawing, going for my eyes like a cornered animal.

I’ve seen worse. Fought worse. Ended worse.

Every strike I land is calculated. No wasted effort. No hesitation. Violence, stripped to its bones.

He grunts as I slam him to the ground, one knee in his spine, his arm twisted back in a hold he’s not getting out of without a dislocation.

I look up.

George is standing there, breath shallow, eyes locked on mine. She’s alive. Strong.

Something in my chest breaks.

She doesn’t look away from what I just did. She sees me. All of me. And she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t run.

---