Page 1 of Tate
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Some guys had all the luck.
Got the girl of their dreams.
Didn’t live with the past haunting them.
Some guys were the heroes of the story, who saved the day and rode away on their white horses, the princess tucked behind them.
Some guys were Tate’s big brother Knox.
And then there were the other guys. The ones who couldn’t help but walk right into trouble, no matter how much they tried to dodge it.
This was Tate’s only thought—well, right after how in heaven’s name had Slava Gregorivich found him?
He didn’t have time to ask, however, because the gigantic Russian who had helped train Tate back in the day had slammed his iron fist into his gut, knocking Tate back from the open hotel room door and into the grand presidential suite of the Bellagio.
Tate tripped on the sofa going down from Slava’s shove and ker-thumped on the floor, nearly knocking the wind out of his body.
Slava took two giant steps and landed on top of him, one of his beefy, scarred hands square on Tate’s chest. The other handreared back for a punch, and that’s when Tate’s mind went to Glo.
Gloria Jackson, his client, and more importantly the woman he just might be starting to love. She was in the next room, changing clothes to join him for pizza—oops, um,notthe room service guy, honey—and maybe a late-night romantic walk under the fountains and along the strip.
He wanted to yell,Run, Glo!But that would only one, alert Slava to the collateral damage-slash-leverage should Tate not dispatch this guy successfully. And two, bring Glo out of her room to the rumble happening in the thirty-sixth-floor suite. And knowing Glo, shewouldn’trun. She’d do something heroically stupid and pick up a vase or a pillow or even use her petite body to try to take down Slava, head henchman of Yuri Malovich and protector of Yuri’s local entrepreneurial activities.
A man who had more blood on his hands than Tate, and a death threat to make good on.
No, Glo. Stay put.
Tate thought of Knox next, only because his bona fide heroic big brother was already down at the fountains on his romantic walk with the womanheloved.
By the time Slava’s fist came at him, Tate was wrangling with his thoughts about trouble and how he probably knew this was coming, if he were honest with himself.
Knew the minute he stepped back in Vegas that Slava and the old crew would find out about it and hunt him down.
Which was why his instincts, his reflexes kicked in and galvanized him to throw up his arm.
Deflect the killer punch.
And with his other hand, deliver one of his own, right to Slava’s jaw.
It knocked the big bear back, just enough for Tate to wiggle out, spin, and find his feet.
And this day had been going so well. He’d even felt a little like a real hero, catching a killer.
Okay, that had mostly been Knox, too, but Tate had shown up to cuff him and bring him to justice.
Score one for the good guys, and it confirmed for him that he could actually do the job he’d been hired for—keep the Yankee Belles, an all-girl band out of Nashville, safe. Next on the list was finding the two bombers who had nearly killed them at an NBR-X bull riding event a month ago in San Antonio, a couple of domestic terrorists who worked for an ultra-left-wing group of radicals.
Slava found his feet and charged Tate, tackling him back onto the top of a round glass table. The table shattered and Tate’s back stung with the shards of a thousand fragments of glass. But he got his knee up and flipped Slava over his head.
Freed himself from the jagged grip.
Yeah, that hurt. He wanted to shout, but a glance at the closed door kept it in.
Slava rolled off the sofa and landed on his feet, breathing hard. A smile tipped his lips. “Still the scrapper.”
Tate backed up, a glance at his weapon, still in his shoulder holster and hanging over one of the countertop chairs. He shouldn’t have let his guard down.
