Chapter Six

W hen strong arms caught Azrael from behind, rage filled him.

The gun in his hand was knocked away from the robber’s head.

Azrael’s finger squeezed the trigger.

The gun fired.

And a bullet lodged into the floor.

People screamed, bolting for cover. The room blurred, and now the only things pressing on Azrael’s mind were escape and kill—in that order.

The blow that knocked the gun away had turned his fingers numb, but Azrael didn’t take time to process anything other than getting the fucker to release him.

Azrael slammed his head back into the much bigger man who had had the nerve to grab him from behind.

His hit missed.

As if the guy holding him had anticipated the move.

Okay, so the fucker had experience.

With his free hand, Azrael pulled his knife and jabbed it back, but the guy easily sidestepped.

It didn’t matter! Azrael was going to kill someone today.

The man’s voice muffled through his red haze, and some part of Azrael’s brain cautioned him that the person could be an innocent bystander, but he figured whomever it was should have known better than to get involved.

What if it is a cop?

“Az…”

Finally the warm murmur of air along with the shortening of his name caused Azrael’s heart to slam against his ribs.

Azrael knew that voice.

It was Real.

Azrael felt his back crushed to Real’s hard muscled chest, the man’s arms locked his arms against his sides.

Azrael’s breath caught and all the anger he felt toward Real disappeared for a moment.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he choked out.

“I changed my mind,” Real breathed against his ear.

The fight went out of Azrael and Real eased his grip.

Sirens from outside swam through the slider doors. “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” piped through the overhead speakers. The people around them were talking.

Azrael heard only the noise as muffled sounds. Real jerked him around and into his arms and Azrael clung to the man.

In that moment, the rage over finding out about Real’s recent one night stand faded into an aching hurt. They were not in a romantic relationship. And his wishful hoping that they would someday be in one, was his own fantasy.

And right now, held in Real’s big strong arms, Azrael was going to take what he could get.

Because it wouldn’t last long.

It never lasted.

Real had made an art of avoiding him.

Denver police were armed when they entered the department store, guns out at the ready. It took several minutes for customers to tell the story to the DPD about what had transpired.

Most of the versions sounded the same—a slender teenager with long black hair and dark eyes had apprehended the big burly robber. The gun went off only when the other big man had hugged the slender one.

With the explanation, DPD cuffed the big burly robber and holstered their guns.

“Where’s the weapon?” one cop wanted to know, but Real wasn’t handing it over to just anyone.

With a tight grip on Azrael’s arm, Real marched the eighteen-year-old through the crowd, outside the door, and into the bitter cold.

Two of the cops followed them and Real wondered if they were going to have a problem.

Five cop cars and two county sheriff SUVs were parked haphazardly in the lot with their lights streaming back and forth, sending a blue and red glow over the area.

Just outside of the door a man in a sheriff’s uniform, with a badge that read Mendoza, stood talking to Creed, Echo, and Ice. Grit was standing glued to Ice’s side.

“This was the weapon used in the attempted robbery.” Real handed the robber’s gun to the sheriff.

“You’re not from around these parts are you?” Sheriff Mendoza said.

“No, we’re visiting for the holiday,” Real told the guy.

“Is this your gun?” Mendoza asked Azrael, who shook his head.

“He gave his statement to the local PD inside,” Real told Mendoza.

“I’m asking him,” Mendoza squinted with cold eyes at Real and gestured at Azrael.

Before Real could show the fucker who the real boss was in this situation, Azrael cut in.

“That gun belongs to guy who was robbing the store,” Azrael said, clamping a hand over Real’s forearm.

“How did you get it?” Mendoza asked Azrael.

“I took it from him,” Azrael said and squeezed Real’s arms when he felt the muscles cord and bunch beneath his fingers.

The sheriff looked Azrael up and down and then turned to Real. “You’re telling me that this skinny kid who can’t weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet took down Paul Stent?”

If Sheriff Mendoza continued sneering and talking in the condescending tone of voice, they were going to have a problem.

“Excuse me,” Seven said stepping forward.

“I’m not talking to you,” Mendoza dropped his hand to his holstered weapon.

Hunter bristled and stepped forward. If Real or Seven didn’t shoot the sheriff, no pun intended, then he was going to stick a knife in the asshole.

Real pulled out his phone and made a call.

Sheriff Mendoza had taken a couple of steps backward, careful to keep the big men in front of him.

“Dave? We have a situation,” Real said into the phone, never taking his eyes off Mendoza nor moving his other arm away from Azrael’s hand—that touch was the only thing keeping him from putting Mendoza on the ground.

“Who’s that?” Mendoza wanted to know, glaring suspiciously at Real.

“The former Secretary of Defense,” Real said and held out the phone.

Mendoza looked gobsmacked.

Azrael had been on the verge of throat punching the cop, and only because Real had confiscated his blade. Otherwise the asshole might have gotten a knife to the ribs.

It really was a good damn thing that Real had called Dave. Azrael wasn’t used to being a peacekeeper and the move he’d made to prevent Real from putting the sheriff down had been instinctual.

From the moment of the phone call and the call from Dave to the mayor, who in turn called the chief of police, things went more smoothly.

The two cops who had followed Real and Azrael from the store were able to give Mendoza the earlier statement from Azrael and Real.

After a while, Dave arrived on the scene along with an entourage of secret service. The mayor drove out only to meet the former SecDef in person. It was a privilege, the mayor assured Dave.

From that point and onward, Mendoza was on his best behavior, and the sheriff did make a point to let them go with a sincere thank you. Real was sure the guy wanted to give them an ass ripping—and that might have happened had Dave and the mayor not been around.

The wind was fucking cold, bitter, brutal, but at least out here Azrael could breathe. He glanced around and found the robber, Paul Stent, sitting in the back of one of the local PD cop cars.

Mendoza had told Dave that Paul Stent was a middle-aged man with a family of four. The man only wanted to get his kids Christmas presents.

Azrael remembered the money filled bag and he wasn’t sure he believed Stent, but he kept his mouth shut as Dave, the mayor, and Mendoza talked.

And while Paul Stent was going to jail for armed robbery, Mendoza had walked over, opened the door to the cop car, and promised the broken man that the department would make sure his kids and wife had a Christmas to celebrate.

And for the first time since the incident had begun, Azrael was glad he hadn’t killed the man.

It took about another forty-five minutes for them all to go back inside the Target and find the gifts they’d dropped in the chaos.

Getting in the long line at checkout felt almost normal.

Or as close to normal as Azrael knew he would ever get.