Kicking It

“Better me than someone else.”

“I’ve got a brick of C-4 in my pouch, all rigged and ready to blow. Let that do the work while we run like hell.”

“If I was sure it would work, I’d be all for it.”

The ’Gast tried again to reach them, this time from the opposite side. Brighton pulled her out of the way just in time to stop it from grabbing her by the hair.

He pulled the C-4 from her purse. She was too busy fending off the ’Gast to stop him, and hadn’t bothered to use the purse’s magic to hide it from him.

Within seconds, he had the hammer attached to the brick of explosives with a discarded length of wire. “I wish I had some duct tape, but this will have to do.”

He tucked the slim detonator in her pocket. “When I yell, blow it up.”

“Oh, no. I’m not blowing you up. You want to do this? We go together.”

She grabbed his hand and willed the boots to cloak them from sight. Then she pushed him out from behind the shipping container.

The ’Gast trying to cop a feel had its head turned away to extend its reach. It didn’t see that they were gone until they were halfway across the room.

Neither of them said anything as they hurried toward the screaming machine. Not that their voices would have been heard over that horrible sound.

The ’Gast by the control panel was still working as fast as its lumbering arms could go, but there was a change in its demeanor. There was no longer the quivering haste of fear. Instead, the thing was moving with excitement.

Brighton hadn’t destroyed the machine after all.

Through the oddly shaped ring and flickering lights, she could see movement. The space in the middle of the ring was darker than the rest of the room. The bloody glow of red lights didn’t touch it. Even so, she could see a mass of elongated arms and legs, sparkling with tiny crystals.

There were Fractogasts waiting on the other side of wherever that machine led. Lots of them.

As they approached, one spindly arm reached through the center of the ring.

A clicking cheer rose up, louder than the machine’s screeching parts.

The doorway was open.

Brighton ducked under that hand and jammed the brick of C-4 beneath the bottom edge of the ring. The hammer was wedged against the flickering metal, ready to become magical shrapnel.

A long leg appeared from the ring, and then a foot landed only inches from Brighton.

Simone tugged on his hand. If they didn’t go now, one of those things was going to step on them.

They jumped off the platform, coming face-to-gut with the ’Gast that had been trying to reach them.

She wasn’t going to be able to avoid a collision. There wasn’t time.

Brighton grabbed her around the middle and spun her away from the thing’s path. She had no idea how he’d managed the feat, but his grip shifted her broken rib and set her chest on fire.

A startled gasp escaped her chest.

The ’Gast halted in midstride and turned around. The few shells that had finally shambled back after being distracted by the blast headed their way.

“Run,” whispered Brighton.

She was still wheezing, unsure if she could make her body obey her commands. Not that it mattered much. Brighton was hauling her out with one arm, practically lifting her off the ground.

Her chest burned. Each labored breath was like a knife stabbing her side.

He looked over his shoulder, and she could feel the change in his stride. He went faster, forcing her to come along.

“Trigger the bomb,” he ordered. “Now.”

She looked back and saw spewing from the ring a steady stream of Fractogasts. More than she could count. Their limbs melded together like a pile of rainbow-colored pickup sticks.

They were clumped up, nice and close. But they wouldn’t be for long.

She fumbled with one hand to find the trigger in her pocket. With a flip of the safety cap and a single press of the button, the room behind them exploded.

Simone flew forward, going airborne. Brighton’s weight was at her back, and a second later it was on her back.

Her head bounced once on the concrete floor, and all the lights went out.

6

Two weeks later

Marcus winced in pain as he shifted his bag of groceries to unlock the back door to his RV. He still wasn’t fully recovered, but each day was a little better. He kept wondering if Simone was healing, too. Every attempt he’d made to contact her had failed.

A warm breeze grazed his skin, bringing with it the scent of spring. The isolated piece of land he owned wasn’t much, but it gave him a place to park, a faint sense of home, and room to work in peace. No one knew where he lived, which was exactly the way he liked it.

He pushed through the door and set his groceries down near the fridge.

“Hey,” came a sexy, feminine voice with just a hint of a rasp to it.

There, lying on his narrow bed, with her back against his headboard and her stolen boots crossed at the ankle, was Simone.

Marcus paused in the act of reaching for the refrigerator’s handle, letting his shock settle.

She looked good. Safe. And sexy as hell garbed in a clinging leather bodice and complete confidence.

He hadn’t been allowed to see her after dropping her off at the hospital. He could tell by the way the staff was looking at him that they thought he’d been the one to beat her up. In a way they were right, which only added to how guilty he looked.

By the time they’d finished patching him up and he’d evaded all the questions he could about what had happened to them, she was gone. Against medical advice.

He was still angry over her leaving him to worry, and it came out in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Unfinished business.”

Anger evaporated as a string of interesting thoughts slipped through his mind, each one more inappropriate than the last. He didn’t normally let himself veer off into the gutter like that, but then again, most women weren’t built like Simone Solange—for both speed and comfort.

She slid from his bed, the move far too slow and sinuous for his peace of mind. Even with the faint bruises marring her cheek, and the pinkish scar along her hairline, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

And probably the most dangerous.

“How did you find me?” he asked.

She smiled, and her appeal went to eleven. “Not important.” She grabbed a box sitting on his bedside table and sauntered into the main cabin. “Here. This is yours.”

Marcus took the box, uncertain if he wanted to open it. After what he’d put her through, he couldn’t imagine there being anything good inside.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Nope. I’m not in the mood to fight a pile of poisonous snakes right now.”

She frowned. “You think I want to hurt you?”

“I got you hurt when I coerced you to take the job.”

She snorted. “Coerced? You’re good, but you’re not that good.” She opened the box, pulled from it the purse he’d made and shoved it at him. “Here. Take it back.”