Chapter 4

It was alwaysweird to Zander that his hands could just as easily heal as destroy. He hadn’t had much use for healing, but he possessed the knowledge all the same. There’d been a time when he would’ve walked away from a downed man, leaving him to bleed out without a second thought.

His old boss used to brag about Zander’s coldness, his cruelty. And while Zander had never embraced it, he’d done nothing to change that perception of him. In his past line of work, it normally didn’t matter who you were or your job description. If you’d been marked for death then you died. But there’d been a special cruelty reserved for law enforcement, for the cops that hunted his former boss. The old man liked showing off just how untouchable he was, and Zander had been the weapon he’d used.

He remembered all the faces of the men who’d been on his former boss’s hit list.

The one Zander was now bandaging up? At the very fucking top.

So, how did a federal marshal based out of New Jersey end up here, on the floor of Zander’s garage, bleeding from the graze of a bullet? Oh, he knew how the bullet thing happened—a jittery motherfucker with no clue as to who he’d decided to rob. But how was the marshal in the same place as Zander?

He glanced over to the side where the guy—Scotty—sat with his knees hugged to his chest, rocking back and forth. Ever since the gun went off, Scotty had gone deathly pale—not that he hadn’t been pale to begin with—and had yet to regain any semblance of color.

The mayor’s fucking nephew. Wasn’t that some shit? He had a bleeding federal marshal and a wanna-be thug with blood ties to the town’s mayor under his roof. For a man who’d made it his duty to skirt the law, he was now elbow-deep in it. He could laugh at the irony if he wasn’t too busy thinking of ways to get rid of two bodies.

He refused to allow tonight to jeopardize his plans, and whatever move he made he had to do it before Vince Hardin opened his eyes and recognized him. If Hardin identified him, there were only two outcomes: prison or death. Neither of those options worked for Zander.

Finished bandaging Hardin, he washed his hands and dried them with a towel from the stack his employees kept handy for that very purpose—thankfully they were clean—and leveled a gaze on Scotty Fallon. “Who knows you’re here?”

Scotty jumped at the sound of his voice, blinking up at him. “No-nobody.” He looked as if he hadn’t eaten or slept in weeks.

Zander shook his head and walked over, slowly kneeling in front of him. Scotty’s gaze followed his every move, eyes so big. And blue. “Can I take you at your word, Scotty?”

Scotty’s head moved up and down rapidly. “Yes. I-I don’t have anybody to tell.” Shame crossed his features and he glanced over at their unconscious guest. “Um…I’m sorry I shot him.” His voice wobbled. “I was just?—”

“How old are you?” Zander didn’t have time for any of this bullshit. He had to protect his own ass.

“Um.” Scotty stared off for a second, then asked, “Is it April?”

Jesus. “It’s May third, Scotty.”

“Oh.” He licked his lips. “Then I’m twenty-four. My birthday is in April.”

Again, Jesus. “Why is the mayor’s nephew out here robbing people?” When Scotty glanced away, Zander grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Don’t look away. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“He’s—He doesn’t like me. So I take care of myself.”

Barely. Zander narrowed his eyes, studying the younger man’s face. Maybe killing him would be doing him a kindness. But first, he had to deal with Vince Hardin. He wanted to know how the marshal came to be in his shop. Plus, Zander needed to prepare for when his boss and his men showed up.

Dark anticipation swirled along his spine.

“Come.” He got to his feet and motioned for Scotty to do the same. “Take his feet.” He grasped Hardin’s arms, but Scotty stuttered and backed away.

“But should we move him? Wouldn’t that hurt him?”

Releasing Hardin’s arms, Zander pulled his gun, pressing it to a trembling Scotty’s forehead. “Don’t ever question me,” he growled. “I’ve killed people for way less. You’re the one who put us in this situation, so you will help me get us out.”

Tears streaked down Scotty’s cheeks when he blinked. “Yes.”

Zander stared at him. Shit like tears didn’t move him. He’d had way too many men beg and plead for their lives on their knees before him. He’d spared none. His finger itched for him to pull the trigger. Getting Scotty out of the way would make it that much easier to deal with the marshal. But then again, he could be a handy bargaining chip.

“Grab his legs and follow my lead.” He stepped back. “And the moment I feel like you’re no longer of use to me, I’m burying you out back.” He paused. “Alive.” He’d bought the garage and all its content, along with the half acre of dense woods out back, and he intended to use every square inch of it. The previous owner’s eyes had practically eclipsed his face when Zander had handed him the duffel filled with cash. No documents changed hands because Zander wasn’t about paper trails, but Ed, the previous owner, knew if he ever showed his face, Zander would kill him. Ed had been extremely happy to pack his shit for a one-way trip to Tijuana.

Now, Zander waited for Scotty to pick up Hardin’s legs, then Zander grasped the marshal’s arms and together they lifted him. He walked backward, leading them into the back office, where he positioned the unconscious man on the couch and instructed Scotty to release him. Scotty did so with a quickness, releasing Hardin’s legs as if they were on fire and then scrubbing his hands down the sides of his jeans.

Zander rolled his eyes. The marshal would live, for now. Despite the blood spilled, he’d only been grazed, and Zander had bandaged him up. But all of that had been done in a less-than-sterile environment, so he’d have to employ a wait-and-see approach for any infections. None of that mattered, not when his life and freedom were on the line. He had questions and he needed answers, badly. But it would have to wait until the marshal woke up. In the meantime, he dug around in his desk drawer, opening the secret compartment with the key he kept in his wallet. After retrieving the phone he kept hidden in there, he relocked the drawer and turned to Scotty. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“I-I—” Scotty pressed his lips together, wringing his hands. “What’s your name?”

“You can call me Zander.”

“Z-Zander, I would like to leave. Please?”

Zander hardened his features and his voice. “Not happening. Don’t ask again. Make sure he keeps breathing.” He pointed to Hardin. “Try not to fuck that up.” He left the room, powering up the burner phone. He put distance between himself and the office but faced it so he could see what was happening. He needed as many things under his control now as possible. He dialed the only number programmed in the burner phone.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me,” he said quickly.

The voice on the other end muttered a sharp and swift curse, then said, “Three groups went out two days ago.”

He nodded. So they’d found him. “For me?”

“No. For a marshal.”

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 shoulderhurt 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.”

So Scotty had tried to rob the place and shot Vince instead? And Zander was the asshole with the smirk and the tattoos? The two of them didnt know each other beforehand?

“Why am I not in a hospital?” He directed that question to Zander, who shrugged.

“Why go through all that trouble when I could fix you up myself?” He made a show of ruffling Scotty’s hair. “Plus, do we want everyone to know that the mayor’s nephew shot a law enforcement officer?” He shook his head. “No, we do not.”

Once again, Vince had the impression that he was missing a huge piece of the puzzle. He looked around, clearing his throat before bringing his gaze back to Zander’s. “You have my phone, wallet, and weapon. I want them back. And I want something to drink.”

“Scotty, get the man a drink from the vending machine over there,” Zander barked. When Scotty got to his feet, Zander pulled him close and whispered something in his ear that had all the blood draining from Scotty’s face. He scurried away without looking back.

“What’s up with Scotty? What are you doing with him?”

Zander spread his hands. “I’m not doing anything with him.”

Vince held his gaze without flinching. “You want something.” That was the only reason he figured he was in the back office of a mechanic’s shop. Zander watched him, gaze working over Vince’s body as if giving him a deep scrubbing. “Is this even your shop? I was driving through, just wanted to get my car looked at.”

“It’s my shop, yeah. Until Scotty over there decided to make it the scene of multiple crimes.”

Crimes Zander didn’t want reported. A light bulb went off. “You’re in trouble with the police.”

“The rent-a-cops around here?” Zander’s features scrunched up in disgust. “Nah.”

Scotty appeared just then, holding out a bottle of water to Vince, who took it with his good hand. The movement made his wound throb even more and he winced.

“Scotty, take a seat next to Vince there.” Zander’s words and tone didn’t invite argument and Scotty didn’t offer up any. He did as told, perching awkwardly on the edge of the couch near Vince’s legs.

“I need to have a professional look at my wound,” Vince told Zander. “If you’re not in trouble with the cops then why not call an ambulance? The longer you keep me here, the worse it’s gonna look for you.” But Vince also wasn’t in a good position; nobody knew where he was or that he’d been hurt. Good in the case of the hired killers that were hot on his trail. Not so good, if he’d judged that look in Zander’s eyes correctly.

The look of a killer.

“It was just a graze, you’re good.”

It appeared Vince had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. “I want my weapon,” he told Zander firmly. “And I want my phone. Now.” He used the tone normally reserved for criminals in the interrogation room, but the guy looked less than impressed.

“Vince.” Zander shook his head, getting down into a crouch. “Catch up, man. The two of you are hostages. Mine.”

Scotty made a helpless sound.

Zander smiled and touched a finger to Vince’s collarbone. “You’re not getting your phone or your weapon, so don’t ask again.” He grinned and got to his feet, pulling two guns from his waistband. One of those guns belonged to Vince. “Fight me and I’m killing Scotty first.”