Alpha Warrior. Aimee ThurloЧитать онлайн книгу.
rather push things to get them rolling than play nice,” Nick said, removing the tape from his knuckles.
Travis shook his head. “A little patience gets better results. Remember how it was for us.”
Nick met his brother’s eyes. They’d been watching each other’s backs since the day their father told them he was going for a walk in the desert and never returned. To this day, they never figured out if he’d meant to abandon them, or had been trying to do them a favor. On the rez, when a man knew that he was dying, he’d sometimes walk off like that. That last act was considered a gift to his family, since a death in the house meant that the building would have to be abandoned. The Navajo Way taught that the chindi, the evil in a man, would never be able to merge with Universal Harmony, so it remained behind, posing a threat to the living.
“I’ll let you know how things go,” Nick said.
WHEN NICK STEPPED INTO the shower, he could hear Travis punching the heavy bag. Travis had lightning-fast reflexes. Nick lacked his brother’s speed and agility, but he packed more power and could slug it out toe-to-toe with anyone.
Fifteen minutes later, Nick was dressed and ready to leave. Tugging on his boots, he stood and automatically reached for the detective’s badge he normally kept on the dresser. The empty gesture made him curse. Suspension meant no department firearm or badge.
As Nick walked down the hall he saw his brother still working out in the gym they built. They’d worked hard to make what had once been a “fixer-upper” in the middle of nowhere into the perfect home for two bachelors. Marriage wasn’t in the cards for either of them. They’d already seen too much of life to settle down with a wife and become a role model for rug rats.
THE RIDE INTO TOWN was open road, most of it down a river valley flanked by wide mesas. Nick pressed on the accelerator and felt the Jeep respond. He liked speed and the edge of danger it brought.
Before long, he entered a west side, high-end housing development, complete with a six-foot wall opposite a private golf course.
His thoughts were focused on tonight’s meeting when he came upon an apparent TA, a traffic accident, just ahead in the right-hand lane. Two vehicles, an old sedan and a big van, were side by side, contact point at the front end, just off the road. Their headlights and taillights were still on. Closing in, he noted the fresh grooves on the driver’s side of the sedan. From the looks of it, it appeared that the van had cut off the sedan and made contact—not that uncommon. At least neither vehicle had rolled or had plowed into the fence.
Nick stopped, and as he switched on his driver’s-side spotlight, he heard a blood-curdling scream. Two large figures wearing hoods were gripping a woman by the arms, trying to drag her around the rear of the sedan.
Fighting like a wildcat, she suddenly broke free. She slammed her clenched fist into the face of the man on her right, swung and kicked his partner in the groin, then raced along the fence line toward Nick.
Giving her room to pass by on his right, Nick pressed down on the accelerator. Intent on scattering her assailants, he drove right at them, giving them two choices—jump out of the way or become a hood ornament.
Chapter Two
Drew Simmons raced down the roadside drainage ditch. The man in the Jeep who’d gone after the ones chasing her had probably just saved her life, but there was no time to thank him.
Tires squealed behind her, but she didn’t dare look back. The men chasing her were armed, and the greater the distance between them, the more difficult the shot. Drew struggled to reach the cell phone in her jacket pocket, but it had slipped down beneath where she’d stowed her glove.
As the sound of the vehicle approaching from behind grew louder, Drew swerved to her left, out of the ditch, and leaped onto the fence, grabbing the wire as high up as she could.
The black Jeep came to a screeching stop beside the curb, the acrid scent of burning rubber filling the air.
“Get in,” the man yelled. He threw open the passenger’s side door. “Hurry.”
She dropped to the ground and climbed in. The man she’d kicked was now sprinting down the road, heading straight for them, waving a pistol. The other was in the van, whipping around in the street, tires screaming. They’d catch up in seconds.
“One of them has a gun,” she said.
“Fasten your seat belt and hang on,” her rescuer said.
He pressed down on the accelerator, and she was thrown back against the seat. Drew felt around for the seat belt, snapping the shoulder strap in place. A determined look settled on her benefactor’s hard features. There was something vaguely familiar about the Navajo man, but she didn’t have time to give it much thought.
“There’s a shotgun on the rack behind us. The number for the safety lock is two-six-zero-zero. Get it loose before they catch up,” he ordered.
Having been raised around guns and taught about safety, she was familiar with the lock and storage rack. Within a few seconds she’d freed the long weapon, swung the barrel up around in front of her, and pumped a round into the chamber.
He looked at her, surprised but happy with her knowledge of guns. “Cool under pressure. And you can fight. That’s probably what saved you.”
“I know where to kick.”
“That’s good enough.”
The van had stopped to pick up the running man, but was now closing in on them.
“The police station isn’t far. Head there,” she said, looking back in the side mirror and seeing the dark van less than two car lengths behind.
“If I do, they’ll figure out what we’re doing and take off. We need another plan. There’s no time to call for backup, either.”
“You sound like a cop.”
“Detective Nick Blacksheep at your service,” he said.
“I’m Drew Simmons,” she answered. “I’m not an officer, but we work at the same place. So how do we sucker them in?”
“I like the way you think, Drew Simmons,” Nick said, and grinned. “Hang on. I’m going to pull into the golf course entrance. It’s a dead end. Once I stop, jump out on your side and use the Jeep for cover. I’ll take the shotgun. If they start shooting, make sure you stay behind the engine block.”
Nick pulled into the dead-end street. Quickly swerving to his left, he took the Jeep into a slow skid, stopping sideways to the street entrance.
Nick took aim with the shotgun, bracing it across the hood. “Stay down,” he yelled.
The van’s brakes squealed as the driver skidded to a stop, the lights illuminating the Jeep.
“Police officer. Out of the van, hands where I can see them,” Nick yelled, averting his eyes to avoid looking directly into the lights.
The van’s engine roared as the driver slammed the vehicle into Reverse, burning rubber.
Nick stepped out from behind the Jeep, and squeezed off a round of number four buckshot at the van’s driver-side front tire. Sparks flew from the ground as the vehicle fish-tailed violently.
“Stop! Police!” He fired and struck the front of the van just above the bumper.
The van continued in Reverse, then the driver hit the brakes hard. The van whipped around a full hundred and eighty degrees and raced away from them.
Nick switched the shotgun to his left hand and reached into his pocket for his cell phone. “I think I holed their radiator. They won’t get far—I hope,” he said, watching the taillights disappear into the darkness.
Drew heard him calling in his report as she joined him. “Why weren’t you carrying your service handgun? Because you’re off duty?” she asked. “No, never