Page 30 of Talk to Me

Fuck.

Stay or go?

The choice ping-ponged through my head. Then the floor creaked to my right and I slid backwards, managing to crab walk to the far side of the island and slip around it before he appeared where I’d been planted.

I kept circling to get behind him and shot upwards when he turned. I got his gun hand pushed upwards and my knife angled toward his throat. Not fast enough because he had my wrist and we were locked in a strength contest as I kept his gun away and he fended off my knife.

The only sound formed between us were harsh breathing and grunts. He was taller than I was, broader built in the shoulders but I had more strength. I was slowly pushing the knife closer to his throat. Then his knee slammed into my groin and agony exploded through me.

One minute I was on my feet and the next, he flipped me, twisted my arm outward and pain radiated to my shoulder. I followed the twist, pivoting with him. The move caught him off guard enough, I pushed my shoulder into his gut and shoved upward. He had to let go of me to try and catch his balance and I ran him across the room and rammed him into a wall

He crashed his fist down against my shoulder, then my back, then where my back joined my neck. Each blow sent fresh pain to flutter after the rest and I snagged something from the table and swung it as I straightened. It knocked the gun aside, not that he let it go, but I caught him across the face with the metal plate or bowl or whatever it was.

Not enough to buy me the time to go back for the knife, so I used the metal platter to ram between his arm and body, then push upward. It sent his gun hand high as I turned, then rammed my elbow into his gut. He needed to let go of the gun.

The back door burst open and another man appeared, he had a gun and it was pointed at both of us.

Shit just went from bad to worse.

“Don’t move,” he snarled. “Where is Patch?”

Well, fuck.

Chapter

Ten

MCQUADE

Between getting back into the country and tracking down any kind of a lead on Patch, I was not in the mood to find these two jackasses battling it out in her house. I didn’t know who they were and I didn’t fucking care.

They were in the way. If they continued to be an obstacle, I would remove them. At this point, it had been over a week, seven days, since I’d last spoken to her. Seven days was an eternity in this business.

“Where the hell is Patch?” I demanded. They could be a pair of contractors, each taking a job to go after her and now fighting it out. “You have five seconds to answer me or I’m just shooting you.”

I didn’t even reach five, before the one in front dropped and the bald guy behind him shot my fucking gun. It flew out of my hand with almost bruising force, but I pulled out a second gun and then it was the three of us, in a triangle, each pointing a weapon at another.

Well, they were both pointing at me.

Fine.

Whatever.

“How do you know Patch?” The guy who’d shot my gun demanded. His English accent salted every word.

“How do you know her?”

“Fuck my life,” the second guy muttered. “You’re contractors.”

That didn’t mean a damn to me. “So are you,” was my only comment. It was definitely not enough for me to lower my weapon.

“Locke.” The second guy identified himself. Probably not the smartest move.

“Excuse me?” Did he have a point?

“Remington,” the shooter stated in his crisp accent. Then they both looked at me.

“I don’t identify myself, particularly to people I don’t know.” Not trusting people was an acquired skill that involved knives in my back.