Lori Foster - Dash of Peril

Getting it together, Cannon nodded. “Yeah. I set it up. I had sponsors who—”

“I should confess,” Simon says. “Already know all about it.”

“You do?”

“Saw your last fight.” Hands on his hips, Dean Conor, better known as Havoc in the fighting world, looked around at the various activities going on.

“You watched me?”

“Wasn’t the first time.”

Cannon kept ping-ponging back and forth between comments from the two men. What did their presence here mean? Wiping a forearm over his face to swipe off some of the sweat, he looked at each of them. “Are you recruiting?”

Simon grinned at Havoc. “He catches on quick.”

That only made Cannon’s heart drum harder. He tried for a cavalier shrug. “You said you’d seen more than one fight. You’re here now.” And I know I’m good.

“We want to train you.” Havoc stopped perusing the gym and instead studied Cannon. “You have a lot of skill, but I think it can be improved on.”

“Always,” Cannon agreed.

“Good attitude.” Grinning, Simon rubbed his hands together. “This is going to be fun.”

“What is?”

He held out his hands. “I’ve already spoken with Drew and he’s interested in signing you.”

“Drew?” Cannon’s brain cramped. “Drew Black?” The owner of the SBC fight club.

“There’s only one, right?” Havoc said, and then as a joke added, “Thank God.”

“So what do you say?” Simon waited, wanting an answer.

Cannon opened his mouth—and one of the kids came charging in the front doors.

“Cannon.” Breathing hard, the kid stopped in front of him. “You told me to let you know...”

Forgetting the icons from the fight industry, Cannon knelt down. This particular kid was only ten, and short, and he looked like he’d run the entire way. “Take a breath, Leo.”

The boy inhaled sharply, blew out fast and said, “There’s a black car parked down the street from her house.”

Ice trickled down his spine. His world closed in. “Four doors?”

Leo nodded hard.

Slowly, Cannon stood. “Did you see anyone in it?”

“No. It’s empty.” He rubbed his nose. “Looks like a ’spensive car, though.”

With a hand on the boy’s head, Cannon said, “Thanks. Leo. I’ll check it out. Why don’t you go tell Armie to give you a snack and drink? He’s in back. Tell him it’s on me. Got that?”

Nodding, Leo ran off to the back room to find Armie.

Cannon turned...and almost ran into Havoc. Damn, but he’d forgotten all about him. “Shit. I’m sorry. Seriously. But I gotta run.”

Instead of looking insulted, Havoc asked, “Trouble?”

“Maybe. Not sure. But—”

“You have to check.” Simon nodded and handed him a card. “Give me a call early next week. We’ll work out the details.”

Cannon paused long enough to say, “This is really happening?”

“Damn, I hope so.” Simon had an inexhaustible humor. “If it’s not, Drew will be pissed.”

Havoc added, “And you definitely don’t want to piss off Drew.”

No, he didn’t. “Thanks. I’ll call first thing Monday.” Already unlacing his gloves, Cannon broke into a jog. He had to change out of his sweat-soaked shorts, but he wouldn’t take the time to shower. Uneasiness dug in and refused to go away no matter how he tried to tell himself that everything was probably fine, that there were probably plenty of black cars in the area.

After he stepped into his jeans, he pulled out his cell and called Yvette. No answer.

She could be showering. She might—

“Hello?”

Slowly, Cannon straightened. Damn it, he didn’t know how, but he heard it in her voice, and that gentled his. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

God. His thighs tensed. “I’m coming over.”

“No!” And then, more quietly, she said, “No, really. Grandpa is sleeping and I...I have stuff to do.”

Bullshit. Yvette looked at him like he walked on water. If no one coerced her, she’d want him there.

Every fucking time, no matter what.

Trying for calm control, he said, “Yvette, now listen to me. I’m going to—”

“I need to go now. Thanks for calling.”

The line went silent, sending the queerest sort of panic clawing through him. Shoving his feet into his shoes, Cannon called the bar. He knew he should get hold of Logan or Reese, but he knew Rowdy’s number by heart. On his way out he snagged a jacket, but forgot to grab the stocking cap he often wore.

Rowdy’s wife, Avery, answered the call. He said only, “Get me Rowdy. Quick.”

A second later, Rowdy said, “What’s wrong?”

Cannon didn’t bother with long explanations. “Something’s wrong at Yvette’s. I’m heading there now. Can you send Logan and Reese?”

To his credit, Rowdy didn’t question him. “Will do. And Cannon? Watch your ass, okay?”

“Thanks.” He shoved the phone back in his pocket. It would take him less than ten minutes to reach the house Yvette shared with her grandpa.

MARGO PAUSED AT THE DOOR without knocking. They were ten minutes late—a delay that couldn’t be helped. She hated leaving Oliver after he’d been sick, so she’d spent extra time coddling him, ensuring he felt better and understood that he’d been returned home to familiar surroundings.

She especially regretted arguing with Dash.

The weekend had been so wonderful that the intrusion of reality seemed doubly harsh. It threw her off, making her testier than she should have been.

Right now, standing on the concrete porch with the hot sun overhead, her frustration level hit an all-time high.

Sensing a problem, she turned to gaze up at Dash. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait in the car?”

Dark eyes direct, he said, “Positive.” He stood very close to her back, reminding her of all they’d shared.

“Now stop stalling.” To preempt any further discussion on it, he reached past her to rap on the door.

Disquiet growing, Margo chewed her bottom lip and looked around the area. “Something’s not right.”

Dash kept a hand on her shoulder. “What do you think it is?”

All the blinds were drawn, blocking the windows. Not unthinkable given what Tipton and Yvette had gone through and their desire for privacy. Shaking her head, Margo listened but heard nothing, no ruckus from inside, no whispered conversations. “I don’t know. I just feel it.”

Dash rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought maybe it was just me.” His hand slid down to her upper arm, intent, she knew, on moving in front to shield her.

From behind them, Cannon said, “Why are you here?”

Margo turned in time to see him bound up the steps. Without his usual hat, his jacket open, he looked hot—in more ways than one. “Cannon. I didn’t hear you.”

“I didn’t want you to.” He’d obviously rushed, but still wasn’t breathing heavy. “Did Yvette call you? What’s going on?”

“She wanted to meet to talk.”

His light blue eyes burned bright with anger. “Something’s wrong.”

Dash searched the area. “We were just thinking the same thing.”

The door opened, and they all three turned, Cannon stepping up front.

Her face pale, a wild pulse racing in her throat, Yvette stood there in something akin to shock. “Cannon.”

“Yeah, me.”

It surprised Margo how furious he sounded when she’d never heard him even raise his voice.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

Sickly, maybe even a little desperate, Yvette shook her head. “Nothing. I just...” She tried for a smile and failed. Looking past Cannon, she said to Margo, “I thought maybe you weren’t coming after all.”

Margo studied her and knew, down deep in her gut, that Yvette wasn’t alone. Cannon was right; something was seriously wrong.

She could handle it. She was trained for this. But damn it, she did not need Dash or Cannon caught in the same trap.

Her smile was more successful than Yvette’s, but then she’d had more practice. “I’m so sorry that we’re late. My cat got sick in the car and we had a mess to clean up.” Turning, she looked up at Dash. “Yvette and I might need to talk awhile. Why don’t you and Cannon—”

“Hell, no,” Cannon said.

Dash was more subtle. He stared into her eyes, and she knew, damn it, she knew he understood what she was asking.

And still he refused.

He gave one small shake of his head. “Sorry, no.”

Cannon said, “Let me in.”

Yvette’s eyes went glassy. “No. No, I’m... I called Lieutenant Peterson. I need to talk with her.”

Cannon snorted, put a hand flat on the door and shoved it open to search the room. Arms around herself, Yvette stepped back and away from him.

Drawing her gun, Margo whispered to Dash, “It’s a trap.”

He tried to stay in front of her. “I figured.” Ignoring Yvette, he, too, looked around. Voice as low as hers had been, he said, “Also figured you wouldn’t leave her.”

And that meant he wouldn’t leave, either?

Cannon glanced at her gun, at how Yvette stood off to the side shaking, and murmured, “I’m glad I told Rowdy to send in the troops.”

Margo was glad he had, too. She didn’t see Tipton; his easy chair was empty. She glanced to either side of the narrow living room, but saw no place for thugs to hide.

The kitchen, then.

It opened both to a dining room and to the living room. You could literally circle from the front door to the kitchen, into the dining room, the living room and back to the front door again.

Cannon took a step toward Yvette but she backed up, farther and farther until she stood in the dining room. “I’m sorry,” she whispered miserably. “I’m so sorry.”

Tipton, holding his ribs, limped painfully out of the kitchen first. “She didn’t have a choice, Cannon.” Two men came out behind him.

They stood back, using Tipton and Yvette as shields. They each held lethal guns, but the darker man—the one who’d tailed them—also kept a big knife pressed close to Tipton’s ribs. Judging by the renewed pain on the older man’s face he’d already suffered a few fresh blows.

Margo studied both the thugs. Neither Dash nor Cannon said a word, but she noticed Dash separating a little, spreading out, dividing the target. She wasn’t surprised. Dash had proven himself to be both intuitive and intelligent.

She prayed Logan and Reese would arrive in time to keep them safe.

“Put the gun down, bitch,” the dark man said. “Now, before I gut the old man.”

She had another gun in her purse. Best to play it calm for right now. Finger off the trigger, she held up her hands and slowly lowered the gun to a side table—within easy reach if she got a single opportunity.

“You,” he said to Dash, “that’s far enough. Take another step and I promise I’ll make you very sorry.”

The bald guy cackled maniacally.

To keep them talking, and therefore distracted, Margo gestured between them. “You two aren’t brothers, so let’s see...” Finger to her mouth, she gave them each due attention, then pointed to the hulk with the goatee. “You were ordered to tail us, so you must be the hired muscle.”

His flinty gaze never blinked. It was so probing, so icy, she could almost feel his hatred.

Ignoring that for the moment, she looked at the balding man, who couldn’t stop snickering like a demented brat. “So that must make you a brother. But obviously you’re not the brains behind this circus, so where is the other one?”

A laugh sounded—and kerosene flooded the floor, washing around Tipton’s and Yvette’s feet.

The girl went rigid, making the balding fool snicker louder.

Out stepped the third man. He looked...inconsequential. Average. Like any other middle-aged guy on the street.

Until he smiled.

Why couldn’t the loonies just look loony and make her job easier?

“That would be me.” He held a lighter that he repeatedly flicked. With fumes in the air, that worried Margo. “I’m the mastermind, thank you.”

She lifted a brow. “Right, if you can call a deranged sicko a mastermind.” Just how combustible was kerosene?

Dash shifted—and from one heartbeat to the next, the main guy went ballistic. “Step away from her, right now!”

When Dash hesitated, the guy clubbed Tipton in the gut, making him groan and almost fall to his knees. Only the bearded guy kept Tipton on his feet.

“That’s not necessary,” Dash said. “You’re giving me mixed directions. He told me not to move, and now you’re telling me to move.”

“I’m the boss.”