She reached into the glove compartment and handed it to me, her hands quick as if she’d handled one before but wasn’t a fan of them. “What are you going to do?”
“Generally when someone shoots at you, you shoot back.”
“What? What in the world?”
With my gun in my palm and a couple of taps of the buttons, my seat leaned back just enough that I was out of the direct line of fire, and I hit one of the special modification buttons I’d put into the car, forcibly dropping the windows. They slid down, and I aimed and fired into the other car. It swerved and careened, but the driver was unable to control the vehicle because he was very, very dead. The car tumbled and rolled and pitched into the line of trees with a loud crash and plenty of smoke.
London stared at me. “What the hell?”
“Stay down. We still have another one to deal with.”
The other car swerved, coming up to our side.
I hit the button again, rolling the windows up, and then we were jostled with a loud scraping bang. My fucking car.
This time, London did scream. “Kannon!”
“Try to stay calm and breathe, in through your nose, out through your mouth, and count your breaths.”
“What? You’re trying to be a Zen master when people are shooting at us?”
Another bang, and I held on to the wheel tightly. “Down, love.”
“I’m not your—”
I reached over and shoved her head down. With my free hand, I hit the button, turned around, and then fired. Two pops, easily. Crack. Crack. The first one missed, the second one hit part of the wheels at least, because the car screeched and careened. The driver was fighting for the wheel. I immediately slammed on the brakes, screeched us around, and aimed for the car.
I threw the BMW into park, and London screamed, “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m going to ask him some questions.”
“He has a gun.”
I held up my hand. “So do I. Stay here and stay down.”
“What if something happens to you?”
“If something happens to me that means that motherfucker in there is a professional. And you are dead anyway.”
That was me, the caretaker that soothed nerves.
Gun in hand, I slowly approached the other car. I reached the driver’s side. The window was shattered, and the driver was gasping for breath. White male. Dark hair. Dark eyes. “Who are you? Why are you shooting at us?”
He spat. “Fuck you.”
He had an accent similar to hers. British, but grittier. South London, maybe? “Talk.”
“And I said, fuck you.”
“Okay, we can do this the hard way.” I bent to open the door, but he hit the gas, tires screeching as he peeled off. I recognized why he didn’t shoot me then. His gun had fallen out of his hand and he couldn’t reach it.
I scowled as I watched the car become smaller and smaller on the road. I jogged back to my vehicle. “Okay, he’s gone. Do you want to tell me who he is? Do you want to tell me why some British tossers are after you?” London didn’t answer though. “London?”
My heart rate kicked up. No. No. No. No. I reached for her. She still had a pulse. Then I grabbed my pen light from the console. I checked her eyes. Christ, she’d passed out. It was highly likely she had a concussion.
You should have checked for that before, you idiot.
Fuck. There would be no getting her to her friend’s. There would be no getting answers tonight. I didn’t really have many options She was hurt, and those idiots who were just shooting at us might come back. I had no choice but to take her with me. Whoever she was, clearly, she needed help. No way was I leaving her here.
Chapter 5 London
One room. One bed. One major problem.
Bright lights shone behind my eyelids, and I groaned, refusing to open my eyes and face the truth. Whatever that may be. Because if I opened my eyes and remembered what had happened the day or night or week before, then I’d have to deal with it. And frankly, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to.
“Good, you’re awake.”
I groaned again as I forced myself to open my eyes, the blinding light hitting my retinas so fiercely that I lowered my lids again and turned over, trying not to vomit.
“What happened?”
“Come on, let me see your face.”
The growly voice seemed far too loud for whatever room we were in. I knew it was male, but I had no idea who the hell it belonged to. To make matters worse I didn’t know where I was to begin with.
That probably should’ve caused a bit of concern, but for the moment, I just needed my head to stop pounding and for whoever was growling to move away.
“London, open your damn eyes.” The tone was sharp.
That forced my eyes open quickly. I immediately narrowed them at the man in front of me. He had tousled blond hair, striking blue eyes, and a chiseled jaw covered in a few-days-old beard that pegged him as a long-lost Hemsworth brother. His gaze narrowed in a match to mine.
“You don’t need to shout,” I snapped as I tried to lever myself up. I moved far too quickly, though, because nausea swept over me, and my stomach pitched. I would have moaned if I hadn’t thought I’d embarrass myself and vomit.
“Feel better, London?” he asked, the sarcasm in his tone making me want to punch him. Slowly, my memories returned in a scrapbook patchwork of the night before. I remembered just who I was looking at now.
For starters, he was far better-looking than my hazy memory gave him credit for. Either that or I had some sort of concussion and my vision couldn’t be trusted. But I remembered the way he’d hooked me to his back last night then climbed us out of the ravine. I remembered the rock-hard feel of his muscles. And God, his damn
