Primal Law

Right. Keep telling yourself that.

Clutching her purse straps in a death grip, she eased toward the door. Turned the knob and slowly inched the weighty metal door open. A bit at a time, just enough to slip out and close it again. Her patience was rewarded with the tiniest squeak of hinges, but even that small noise sounded like a trumpet blast to her ears.

The corridor was clear. Of course it couldn’t be dimly lit with lots of inky shadows to hide in, like in the movies. The tunnel-like space was as brightly lit as a football field at halftime, and if the guard came back, she was toast. At least the lack of cover meant no one could sneak up on her, either.

Walking fast, she forced herself not to break into a run. Just a few more yards and—

“Nooooo!”

She froze, heart thundering, eyes wide. “Jesus Christ,” she whispered.

Straining her ears, she listened. Nothing. The faint wail of despair might’ve been her imagination—the product of nerves and too little sleep. For a crazy second, she felt compelled to turn around and search for the source. To find out once and for all whether the spirit that constantly begged for help at all hours of the day and night was real, or if she was out of her mind.

A door opened at the end of the corridor and a burly guard stepped into view. “Hey! What’re you doing down here? I need to see some ID.”

Kira turned and ran, ignoring the man’s angry shout. Fast as her feet could carry her, scrambling to think of another way out, she hit the door at the far end and kept going. A service elevator loomed ahead, which she assumed was for deliveries, being located at the back of the building and away from the general staff.

And if it was for deliveries, it should open near the parking lot.

She punched the button, nearly frantic. The elevator doors slid open, but the guard wasn’t far behind. Leaping inside, she hit the button marked L—oh, God, let it mean “Loading Zone”—then the one to close the doors, slapping it repeatedly.

The fat guard rounded the corner, belly jiggling, face red, hand on the butt of his gun. “Stop!” He drew the weapon, kept coming, one pudgy hand reaching out to catch the doors.

Too late. He missed, ruddy mug disappearing from view, and the box lurched, started upward. According to the panel the ride was only one level, but it seemed an eternity. Right now, the guard was probably on his radio calling for backup to stop her from getting away with . . . whatever it was she had in her purse.

And if her suspicions were correct, and she was apprehended? Bye-bye Kira, never to be heard from again.

The elevator stopped, and she held her breath as the doors opened. Nothing but dark, empty space greeted her and she hurried out, scanning the large area. It did, in fact, appear to be some sort of loading area, or garage. A couple of vans emblazoned with the NewLife Technology logo sat empty on the far left. Those were pretty much the contents of the cavernous space, save for a few discarded boxes.

Across the way, there were two big bay doors wide enough for just about any kind of truck to pull through, and to the right of those, a regular door with a lit EXIT sign above it. She took off, not caring how much noise she made. She had to get the hell out of there and to her car, now.

She pushed outside, into the night, the heat of June in Las Vegas hitting her like a slap. The still-soaring temperature, however, was the least of her worries. As she ran around the corner of the building toward the main employee parking lot, shouts sounded from just ahead and to her right.

“Shit!”

Two guards, including the burly one, burst from a different exit, clearly intending to cut her off. Her old Camry was just a few yards ahead, and she sprinted faster, fumbling with her key chain, pressing the button to unlock it. As she yanked open the driver’s door, a series of loud pops rang out, pelting the side of her car.

“Oh, God!” Jumping inside, she slammed the door, tossed her purse onto the other seat, shoved the key in the ignition, and fired it up.

She peeled out, fishtailed, then straightened the vehicle and sped toward the company’s entrance. A glance in the rearview mirror revealed that a couple of men in suits had joined the guards, who were waving their arms in agitation. The men broke off from the guards and jogged toward a dark sedan parked close to the building.

Kira turned her attention to the small guardhouse at the entrance, the orange-and-white-striped arms extending across both the in and out lanes. Normally, she’d stop and swipe her badge to raise the arm, but with two goons chasing her who were probably also armed and ready to shoot first, ask questions later? She’d skip the formalities.

Flooring the accelerator, she gripped the steering wheel tight and rammed through the barrier, cringing at the awful crunch of wood and metal. She risked another look to see the arm go flying, snapped like a toothpick. The dark sedan was now in hot pursuit.

And unshakable. Whatever the sleek model was the assholes were driving, it obviously had more juice than an ancient Camry held together by wire and duct tape. She was lucky it had crashed the gate and come through in one piece, and from the sound of the gears grinding and the engine wheezing, her dubious fortune wasn’t going to last much longer.

Correction: Her luck had run out weeks ago when she’d started hallucinating visions of a sexy dead guy—was that an oxymoron?—begging for help, and she’d actually listened.

Where in the hell could she go? The police station wasn’t far. She knew a couple of officers, one a detective. And she’d tell them, what? That she was in possession of stolen property and being shot at? That would turn away her pursuers for now, but she’d likely be arrested, the property returned to NewLife, and she’d have nothing to prove her claims. Such as they were.

So the police were out. Which left the airport. If she could just lose these pit bulls, she’d go there, buy a ticket to anywhere. Somewhere random, get a hotel room. Then she’d call a colleague who was a doctor specializing in genetics, arrange to meet him. With someone in the medical field on her side, she might have a chance at getting somewhere with proving what the docs at NewLife were up to.

Which would have been a great plan if the Camry hadn’t given up the ghost. The damned thing coughed, sputtered . . . and died.

“No!” Yanking the steering wheel, she guided the car off the side street and into a darkened parking lot. Coasting to a stop, she put the car in park and took in her surroundings.

She was one street off the Strip, behind one of the casinos and off the beaten path. And the bad guys had just screeched to a stop next to her car, on the driver’s side.

Both of them emerged from the sedan, the moonlight reflecting off the guns in their hands. They exchanged a look and then approached with slow, confident strides, wearing identical expressions of malicious triumph.

The man who’d been the passenger opened her door, grabbed her by the arm, and jerked her out, slamming her back against the side of her car.

“Seems you’ve been snooping where you don’t belong,” he sneered into her face. “The underground level is restricted for a reason. Why don’t you tell us what you hoped to discover down there? Or maybe you did find something you shouldn’t have.” He turned his head, called to his partner. “See what Sweet Cheeks has in her purse.”

Kira took advantage of his momentary distraction and brought her knee up hard between his spread legs, doing her best to relocate his balls. Letting out a hoarse cry, the man clutched his crotch and fell to his knees.

Kira took a deep breath, and released a scream loud enough to wake the dead.

“Did anyone ask Hammer if he wanted to ride along this trip?”

Jaxon Law studied Zander Cole’s profile as the dark-haired man guided the Mercedes SUV through heavy traffic on the Strip. True to his nature as a Healer, his best friend was always thinking of those who were broken— and how to fix them. Not that Hammer was necessarily broken; the big, quiet man was just . . . scary different. “I did. He said he wanted to go to bed early and read.”

From the back, Aric snorted. “Jesus. Is he going to do his knitting, too?”

Beside Aric, Ryon piped up. “Quilting.”

“What?”

Jaxon craned his neck and eyed the pair, snickering at Aric’s puzzled expression. The big redhead was frowning at Ryon as though he’d uttered a foreign word.

“He doesn’t knit—he quilts,” Ryon said slowly, as though speaking to a three-year-old. “Says it calms him.