Page 65 of Straight Shooter

She growled and bore down on him with all her strength. Her hand shook, and the tip of the knife scraped his shirt. The muscles in her arms screamed.

His pupils dilated and the skin around his face pursed into a scowl. If she didn’t finish this, he’d make her pay. Lifting her free, throbbing hand, she brought her palm to the bottom of the handle. Her hand sang in protest, but she slammed her body behind the blade.

Beanie howled, and a small pool of blood surrounded the knife—which hadn’t gone nearly deep enough.

He twisted, lifted his knee, and jabbed his foot into her abdomen. She flew backward and landed on her tailbone on the concrete. Her nerve endings twanged, sending a shockwave to her skull. A low buzz sounded in her ears and her focus waned. She reached for the knife but got nothing but a handful of air.

He had the weapon.

Beanie stood, and his shoes filled her line of vision. Panicking, she rolled onto her knees to push to a standing position, but her movements were sloppy and slow. He dug his hand into the back of her neck as if he were lifting a kitten by its scruff and hauled her to her feet. He shoved her against the wall and her face slammed into the cement.

“You’re going to pay for that.” He wrapped his hand in her hair and tilted her head back. His mouth touched her earlobe. All the heat left her body. “What do you think your boyfriend will think when he finds out that I fucked you to death?”

Epinephrine galloped through her body. She bucked backward, but the solid length of his body against her back didn’t budge. She pushed her hands into the unrelenting stone at her fingers and threw her weight to the side.

His laugh boomed in the small room. A small, pitiful pant left her lips. She caught sight of her twisted finger and her stomach lining turned to acid. There was no hope for her now. She’d keep fighting, stall as long as she could, but he’d win. She’d die in this damp room beneath the ground and her body would be fed to alligators like Max’s. Her tear ducts stung and the ache in her chest morphed into a deep, chasm of despair.

She’d wasted too many years, had felt too sorry for herself, and had held too much resentment to ever allow herself a full life.

Please, God, spare me and I’ll change. I’ll become what I’ve always dreamed and who I never thought I could be.

Beanie shifted. Metal gleamed near her face then tapped her on the cheek. “Don’t scream,” he whispered.

Rhett glided his feet swiftly and soundlessly down the stairs. The Glock was heavy in his palm as he followed the voice. The rage of Beanie’s threats reached his ears, and red flashed before his eyes. He located the room the sounds were coming from and stalked forward, his soft-soled shoes quiet on the concrete.

He’d kill him. He’d tear him to a million fucking pieces. His heart beat in triple time against his eardrums. He couldn’t hear a feminine voice. The hot, singeing taste of revenge hit his tongue.

Beanie’s back filled his vision first through the open door. His chest was pressed against the wall, and someone—Peyton—was bucking beneath him. Rhett lifted his gun and aimed. Suddenly, Beanie pulled back and screeched.

Rhett’s muscles stiffened, his finger not yet on the trigger. Beanie stumbled backward and Peyton wheeled around and swung her foot into his groin, sending him to the ground. Then she caught sight of Rhett in the doorway and stopped short. Her mouth fell open.

“Freeze!” Rhett aimed the mouth of the gun at Beanie’s head.

Beanie gripped his manhood and looked up at Rhett in disbelief. Blood trickled from where Peyton had bit his hand. Rhett closed the distance between Peyton and him. She hurled herself at his chest, and he caught her in his free arm.

God, she seemed so much smaller, so much more delicate than she had only hours before. The scents of blood and fear clung to her skin. He ran his hands over her bare back. Her breasts were covered by a lace bra. Fury consumed him momentarily, until he brought his gaze to her face. Dampness coated her cheeks. Relief swelled his chest, and he backed her up to the doorway. He had to get her to safety, had to get her out of harm’s way in case Beanie pulled a gun. But he couldn’t for the life of him tear his body from hers. One of her arms locked fiercely around his neck. Even if he wanted to dislodge her, it’d be a struggle. Her other arm hung awkwardly at her side, and instinct told him she was hurt.

“Police!” The announcement from the stairs softened the steel in Rhett’s veins. He loosened his grip on the gun and backed out of the room, still holding Peyton.

“He’s in here!” he called.

“Agent Callahan?” one of the three cops said, approaching. Rhett shifted his gun into his other hand, at Peyton’s back, and fished out his credentials.

The female cop glanced at them and then at Beanie, who was still folded on the ground. She waved Rhett upstairs. “Get her to a paramedic.”

He hugged Peyton, who was inhaling sharply. “Baby, are you okay?”

The shaky hiccup of a sob didn’t reassure him. He couldn’t look her over in the basement, but he could cover her. He peeled off his shirt and fit it over her head. She gingerly worked her injured arm through the hole. Catching her legs under his arm, he cradled her to his chest and ascended the stairs. More cops brushed passed him. He weaved through the house and out the front door. The glare of the high-hanging sun contrasted the dark war of emotions inside his chest.

What had the sonofabitch done to her? Getting her to one of the waiting ambulances was paramount, but selfishly, he needed to see for himself what state she was in. “Can you stand, honey?” He dipped his nose to her hair, inhaling the tropical smell of coconuts.

She nodded. He let her feet touch the ground but didn’t take his arms away from her. He set her back a few inches from his chest, where she seemed to want to burrow forever.

A bruise ate up half her cheek. The sight of the purplish hue sent a current of anger down the cords of his arms. Mascara darkened the skin around her eyes, and beneath the colorful bruises her skin was sickly pale. He ran his hands over her back to her shoulders then down her spine again. His gaze fell to the odd placement of her right hand, and his body hardened.

He circled her wrist gently with his fingers and lifted. Dried blood coated the outside of her wrist. Her good hand cradled the bad one near her pinky.

“What happened?” Rhett’s senses fizzled. If the bastard had cut off her finger he’d go fucking ape shit.