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They weren't professionals—too obvious for that—but they weren't lightweights either. Big as fucking tree trunks in some California Redwoods forest, the men watched the gym's entrance and garage door with fanatical attention. He'd seen the type before. Roughly trained, hyped up on one substance or another, and hungry to be the guy to throw the first punch or fire the first bullet. They weren't soldiers. They weren't strategists. They were muscle with specific orders. No doubt, in this case, those orders were to grab, interrogate and dispose of Tamara.
He'd wish them luck but his mama had given him enough home training to know that lying was wrong.
As soon as Red Shirt started strolling their way, Isaac had practically thrown her into the bakery's doorway. He'd moved in and plastered her body to his to block her from view as much as possible. He'd fisted her bright blonde hair so the white-blonde highlights wouldn't glimmer in the streetlight. He'd yanked her head back to keep her face in the shadows. And then he'd kissed her because...well, that was a two-part win that was biting him on the ass, or more correctly, another part of his anatomy. Now was not the time to get a hard-on, but the power shot of adrenaline mixed with lust careening through him had other ideas. Tearing his lips away from hers, but keeping their mouths close enough to make it look like they were kissing from a distance, he took in a deep breath of sanity.
Tamara opened her mouth, but he gave her a gentle squeeze on the curve of her hip and she closed it. The look in her blue eyes told him she didn't like handing her safety over to someone else.
Well, too damn bad darlin', because you're stuck with me.
Primed and ready for action, he continued to block Tamara from view as much as possible while using the bakery's widows to watch the men. Bored Driver and Beard Man maintained their positions. Red Shirt, on the other hand, was strolling his 'roided-up self straight toward them.
Isaac pivoted to completely block the man's view of Tamara. "Don't move
," he whispered.
With every step the man took in their direction, the air stilled a little more and the sounds of the city at night came in clearer. A police siren a few blocks away. The laughter of a couple leaving Satchiko. The hum of the traffic on one of the main roads that would eventually spill out onto Interstate 35 West.
Isaac smoothed the visible tension from his body. Even if the guy wasn't a pro, that didn't mean he didn’t have good instincts. Fane's outfit was based in Idaho—home to lots of bear, elk and pronghorn hunting. Add to that the fact that The Crest Society took the militia aspect of their twisted little cult seriously, and you had muscle that was just knowledgeable enough to be dangerous.
The man's steps grew nearer. Using the closeness of their bodies to disguise his intent, he glided the back of his palm over the front of Tamara's shirt, noting despite the circumstances the hard pebble of her nipple, and stopped when his fingertips brushed the butt of his Glock. He didn't pull it—not yet, and never unless he had to.
A breeze pulled some of Tamara's hair loose at the same moment Red Shirt passed by them. One long strand whipped her in the face, slicing across her open eyes. Her quick inhale of pain was instinctual and almost silent, but not quite. Red Shirt hesitated. He turned. The man's satisfied exhale was the only warning. It was more than enough.
Keeping his body loose, Isaac looked over his shoulder at Red Shirt, a bored look on his face. "I'm not into being watched man. Take your pervert ass somewhere else."
Red Shirt puffed up his chest. "Let me see the girl first."
"Fuck off." He nudged Tamara another few inches farther back into the alcove's shadows. "I don't share my women."
"I want to see the girl."
"What you want doesn't concern me. Go pound pavement."
He turned back toward Tamara. Her eyes were huge blue dinner plates, but he couldn't do more than give her a reassuring mini-nod before snapping his attention back to Red Shirt's reflection. The big lug stood there for a few seconds, the gears in his walnut-sized brain working hard enough practically make smoke appear.
Definitely not a pro. You didn’t hesitate and you didn’t telegraph your next move the way Red Shirt was by fisting his meat hook hands.
If he'd been on his own, Isaac would have enjoyed pounding the numbskull into oblivion, but that would leave Tamara exposed, so he went for the move he hated making.
In one fluid move, Isaac withdrew his Glock from the shoulder holster, spun around, extending his gun arm and using his other hand to keep Tamara as far back behind him as possible.
"Here's how this is going to work. Me and my girl are going to make our way to the garage on the corner. You and your buddies are going to stand down."
"Not if that's who I think it is with you." Looked like this broken clock was right at least once a day.
The conversation had ended the moment Isaac pulled the gun. Red Shirt just didn't realize it. As simple as pulling the trigger would be, shooting Red Shirt wasn't the best option. Bored Driver and Beard Man were still at the other end of the block, focused on the Devil's Dip Gym. One loud bang in the night would change that. Fast.
"Hey dipshit," Isaac said, his voice forceful but low.
Red Shirt's gaze flicked from the gun to Isaac's face, exactly as planned.
Isaac adjust his grip on the Glock, brought his arm up and slammed the metal against the man's temple. He went down like a fighter with a glass jaw. There wasn't time to appreciate the victory. He hooked his hands under Red Shirt's armpits and hauled him into the alcove, dropping him at Tamara's feet. He stripped the other man of his Beretta, wallet, and phone, pocketing the last two and handing the gun to Tamara. No one made it a week with B-Squad without at least knowing the basics of gun safety. Like she'd been trained, she kept her finger off the trigger and the muzzle pointed to the ground.
"Follow my lead and we'll get out of here," he promised her.
Her eyes were still wide, but she nodded.
A quick visual sweep showed Bored Driver and Beard Man still at their posts, all of their attention on the gym doors. What he and Tamara needed was a diversion. Lucky for them, the light in the third window from the left on the Devil's Dip Gym's second floor was on.
