Excerpt from Lone Star Witness

Prologue

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The baseball bat slammed into Slade McKenna’s back. Hard. It was a bone-rattling blow that nearly brought him to his knees.

Nearly.

It was bad luck for his attackers that he managed to stay on his feet, dodge another whack from the bat, and in a blink assess the shitstorm that was already on him.

There were three men, all about his size—big and beefy—and they had pretty much surrounded him in the dark parking lot of the seedy Texas Trails Motel. One was behind him armed with that damn metal baseball bat. Another to his right with a Bowie knife that he was holding in a such a way that let Slade know he knew how to use it.

And the third, straight ahead, had a gun.

It was a cheap assed Saturday Night Special. But cheap ass could still kill.

Take out the biggest threat first.

That’s what Slade had been trained to do, first in the military and now in his job as an elite security specialist at Maverick Ops. The blow from the bat hadn’t screwed up his moves or slowed him down. Hallelujah on that because he charged forward in what he called the pissed off bull gets the matador.

Slade rammed his head straight into the gun holder’s throat while giving him a punch to the gut and kneeing him in the balls. All in one fluid motion. Some would probably consider that last part dirty fighting. And it was. But these dicks had attacked him, so bring on the dirty and amp it up a notch.

He kicked the gun out of the dick’s hand and spun around. And got whacked again with the sonofabitching bat. This time, the blow landed on his side, and he could have sworn that he heard his ribs cursing him.

Slade was doing some cursing, too, and he dodged attempted blow number three by grabbing the bat and giving Dick Two a little of his own medicine. He caught hold of the bat and shoved it as hard as he could into the guy’s face. Blood spewed, and there was the satisfying sound of cartilage breaking in his nose. Even with that, the idiot tried to come at Slade, so he repeated what he’d done to Dick One.

Head butt to the throat, gut punch, and a kick to the balls with his steel toes combat boots.

He went down.

Just as Dick Three lashed out with his knife.

Slade felt the slice of the blade. Felt the pain shoot through him as if controlled by an electric fence. It hurt. Bad. But again, Slade shook it off enough to dodge another attempted stab.

He ducked to the side and didn’t waste a second coming right back. Right at Dick Three. No kick to the balls this time. Slade went old school and gave him a right hook, followed by a left, then another right, this time to the side of his head. Before tonight, that was a combo that had been one hundred percent effective.

And it apparently still was.

The guy’s eyes glazed over, and he dropped like a stone.

With all three down, Slade finally drew his gun, something he hadn’t had the chance to do when they’d ambushed him.

“I will shoot you in the balls if you move or try to come at me again,” he warned them, and he made sure there was no hesitation in his voice. No bluffing tone. Because he would do just that.

“Spock,” he said to his artificial intelligence security app on his phone. So named as a tribute to his late mom. “Call the cops. And an ambulance,” he added. Not for himself but for Dick Three, who likely had a concussion.

Since all three were on the ground and were moaning, writhing in pain or making other annoying sounds, Slade kept his gun aimed at them and backed toward the door to room 112. It was cracked open enough for him to see the woman peering out.

For him to see the terror etched on her face and in her eyes.

“You’re safe,” he told her just as Spock came back with a reply.

“Responders are on the way,” the app said in its blank emotional tone. “And you just got a voicemail.”

Slade was about to tell Spock that any and all voicemails or calls could wait until he got this woman home.

Then, Spock added something that changed everything. Spock said her name. Just her name. And Slade knew.

He needed to get to her fast.

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