“Shit,” Clay muttered.
Then in a series of rapid moves, he shoved Tate out of the way, blocked the assailant’s forward momentum with his arm, and rammed two knuckles into the man’s throat with enough force to send him staggering. But immune as he was to the realities of physical pain, the junkie regained his footing, charging Clay with renewed vigor.
“Run!” Clay ordered, and the moment’s inattention caused him to catch an elbow in the gut. “Go back to the bar and call the police!”
Torn between not wanting to leave him alone with a knife-wielding maniac and knowing that he was right, Tate hesitated for only a second before shooting from the protective cover of the doorway. He’d dragged her out of the pub so fast that she didn’t have either her purse or her cell phone. A scream for help clawed its way from her throat as she flew toward the safety of the crowd.
Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw Clay execute a well-placed kick that brought the junkie to his knees, just as she stumbled into the bar.
Her cousin Rogan was already at the door.
“What happened?”
“There was a man… with a knife.” Terror had robbed her of breath. She sucked it in, pointing in the right direction. “Clay’s fighting him. We need to call the police; I think the man killed someone.”
By that time, a small crowd had gathered to hear what she had to say. Several people whipped out their cell phones to dial 911 while Rogan shot out the door. Clay’s friend Justin, who’d heard the end of her statement, followed on Rogan’s heels.
Shaking off the well-meaning hand of a concerned stranger, Tate chased after the men, pushing through the crowd that had formed on the sidewalk in order to head back toward Clay.
She could only pray that he was alright.
The rapid approach of sirens cleaved the thick night air, and by the time she made it back the first patrol car arrived on the scene. Relief mixed with concern as she saw Clay, battered and bloodied, but basically in one piece.
Glancing at Tate as she approached – a silent acknowledgement that all was well – he straddled the unconscious junkie’s back until an officer stepped in to cuff the man.
From the bowels of the alley, Justin’s voice rang out the cry for an ambulance. Apparently the man who’d fallen victim to the mugging was still alive.
Rogan stepped close enough to sling a supporting arm around her shoulders, and Tate leaned into his familiar warmth. Despite the heat, she found herself shivering.
More police cruisers arrived on the scene in a deluge of wailing sirens and blinking lights. An officer began to question Clay.
Somewhat reluctantly, Clay pulled a wallet from his pocket, offering his identification.
Surprise flickered over the cop’s dark features, and then he handed the ID back to Clay.
“What do you know?” the cop called to his partner, tone bordering on irritation. “Our Good Samaritan here works for the FBI.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Bentonville, South Carolina
“WHAT the hell are you looking at?”
JR Walker looked up from his plate in reaction to the question, which his companion obviously hadn’t directed at him. An unruly trio of teenage boys huddled at the all-night diner’s bar, snickering and casting furtive glances toward JR’s table.
JR sighed over the all too familiar altercation. Unless disguised, his cousin’s astounding size and stark albino coloring tended to draw attention.
And attention was something they didn’t need.
“Simmer down, Billy Wayne,” JR hissed between his teeth. “You start a fight, and it’s going to draw heat. You know how small town cops operate – they’ve got nothing better to do, so a brawl at the local diner would be the high point of their evening. Unless you want to land your white ass in the county jail, ignore the snot-nosed brats and finish your food.”
Billy Wayne’s near colorless eyes slid back toward JR’s, discharging hostility like a live electrical current.
“Don’t look at me like that. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be worrying about heat, now would we?” JR picked up his glass of sweet tea and stared over the rim, knowing that his cool rebuke annoyed the hell out of Billy Wayne. But it wasn’t like the man didn’t deserve it. He’d crossed the line back in Atlanta a few months ago, killing one of the girls they went to so much trouble to acquire.
“It wasn’t that girl’s fault you couldn’t perform. I’ve been telling you for years that those ‘roids were going to catch up with you one day.”
Billy Wayne’s thick fist closed around his fork as he stabbed a piece of sausage. “I don’t need any of your lectures.” He shoved the meat into his mouth, taking pains to be extra crude.
JR’s chuckle had less to do with amusement than condescension. “Just try to keep yourself in check for a while. At least until we get the lay of the new land.” Like their hometown of Atlanta, Charleston and its environs were undergoing a rapid population explosion, which meant that police departments and child welfare services were having a difficult time keeping up.
All the better for him and Billy Wayne to sweep up the sweet young things who fell through the societal cracks.
Human trafficking was a dirty business, but somebody had to do it.
Bored of poking at his cousin, he turned his own gaze toward the teenagers. Like overgrown sticks with hair, the lot of them. And they’d been just young enough, just stupid enough to disregard Billy Wayne’s size.
He singled out the most obnoxious of the teens, and stared until the kid grew uncomfortable and turned back around.
Lucky for them he’d been there to talk sense into Billy Wayne.
The Inn at Calhoun, Charleston
“OUCH!”
Clay complained as Tate dabbed the antiseptic against his busted lip. He sat on the closed toilet lid in her bathroom – shirtless, bloody, and grumpy – while she straddled his legs and went about the tricky business of protecting his wounds from the threat
