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He exhaled slowly. “Got a name?” But his nape tingled and he knew.
“Hardin. Attempts were made.”
And those attempts clearly failed. “Why him?”
“Dunno, but the old man is handling it personally. He wants him alive so he’s joining them.”
Ah. Zander didn’t believe in coincidences. His former boss wanted Vince Hardin, and here the marshal was, dropped into Zander’s lap by a random bullet. There was something Hardin had or knew that the old man wanted. Zander would find out what it was because it was only a matter of time before his former boss’s men found Zander.
“Hey!” Scotty ran out of the office, cheeks red, chest heaving. “He opened his eyes. He’s awake!”
Zander needed leverage. And just like that…he had it.
Vince’s shoulder hurt like a mother. The pain radiated down his right side and he shifted on whatever hard and uncomfortable surface he lay on, trying to escape it. No go. A grunt left him, and he thought he heard somebody gasp.
He lifted his lashes, freezing when he found a pair of watery blue eyes trained on him. Where in the hell was he?
The guy staring at him, whoever he was, jumped to his feet before Vince could verbalize a question, and raced out of the room. “Hey!” he called out to whoever else was around, voice breathy with panic. “He opened his eyes. He’s awake!”
Vince went on alert, bringing his good hand down to pat his body. Fuck. His work-issued weapon was missing. He’d been shot and now he was unarmed around strangers in what appeared to be—he glanced around quickly—a small office. The sound of a door opening stiffened his spine and the scent of motor oil and exhaust hit him, refreshing his memory just as a man stepped into his line of sight.
Tall. Wide shoulders. Medium brown skin and a head full of black, tight curls close to the scalp. Full lips, days’ old shadow on his sharp jaw. Tattoos on his throat, peeking from under the collar of his black t-shirt worn under a black jacket. His jeans were faded, boots dusty. Hands hanging loosely at his sides, he stared down at Vince with serious brown eyes.
Something about him…
Vince frowned.
Something about him immediately set Vince’s teeth on edge. More than ever he wanted a weapon. He’d stumbled onto something he wanted no part of, and judging by the barely contained feral look in the eyes of the stranger sizing him up, Vince didn’t have a choice. He was in it.
“I’m a federal marshal,” he said, holding the man’s gaze. “Think before you?—”
“I know who you are.”
Vince blinked. The other man’s voice was deep, just shy of an outright growl. “You know who I am?”
“Uh-huh.”
Had they met? Made sense because something about him was familiar. Vince cocked his head, taking him in, trying to jog his memory, but the answer wouldn’t come. “How do you know me?”
“Nah.” The man shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting in a hint of a smirk. “Didn’t say I knew you.” He reached behind his back and Vince stiffened, relaxing slightly when the man held up Vince’s wallet. “Said I knew who you were.” He flipped Vince’s wallet open. “Vince Hardin, Federal Marshal.” He lifted his gaze, and it held a bit of mockery. “Is that correct?”
There was something Vince was missing. “Who are you? Did you shoot me?” If they didn’t know each other, why would this person shoot him? He tried sitting up, but his body gave up on him and he fell back against the couch, swallowing a moan. “You shot me?”
The stranger grinned, and if Vince had been somebody else, he’d be crapping himself at that moment. As it were, he was just pissed. And in pain.
“If I’d shot you, you would be dead.” He glanced to the side, flicked a finger, and the other guy from before—younger, unkempt appearance, blond hair—walked over. Every step telegraphed just how much he didn’t actually want to be there, and his body language—head lowered, shoulders hunched—gave away his fear.
He couldn’t be afraid of Vince, not when he’d been unconscious with a bullet in him. And if it was only the three of them there?—
“Are you okay?” Vince asked the young man, whose head jerked upright. His eyes were red-rimmed when they met Vince’s. “Did he hurt you?” He scowled at the tattooed guy. “Are you hurting him?” He had zero tolerance for bullies.
Tattooed guy placed a large hand on the back of the younger guy’s neck and drew him closer to him. And to Vince. “Scotty, tell the federal agent here what you did.”
Scotty trembled. His gaze dropped to the floor.
Vince narrowed his eyes at the tattooed guy in warning.
“Um…” Scotty’s voice shook just as badly as the rest of his body. “I shot you,” he blurted out. Wrenching away from the other man, Scotty dropped to his knees in front of Vince, tears running down his face. “I didn’t mean to. I just wanted some money.” The words came a mile a minute, making it difficult for Vince to catch up. “I didn’t know anybody was still here and then I took the gun and Zander… Zander wanted me to shoot him, but then you came in and I—It just went off. I’m sorry.”
