Convicted (Entangled Ignite) by Dee Tenorio Page A

any of these bastards farther than she could kick them.
    She never thought she’d find herself missing the guys from the crew she’d grown up around. Those men were hard, yes, but they’d had a code. Not of honor, exactly, but trust. Not one of those men would have tempted Red Dog’s wrath by violating the bar or his niece.
    These men now…Like a pack of rabid wolves, they were bound together only because they had a similar goal—money. They’d do anything for it and screw anyone over to get more. The rapid growth of the crew under Frank’s control had only made a bad thing worse. She was far safer out here in the open where the exits were only a few feet away. Trapped in a small room with four walls and a deadbolt? Like hell.
    She couldn’t wait to get her hands on enough real evidence to put each and every one of them in prison for the rest of their lives. She’d spent two years around these fuckers with precious little to show for it. Who would have thought it would be easier to nail Red Dog? When she’d come home, pretending to be little more than a street scrapper who’d run out of road, he’d eventually slipped up where she could find it. Frank wasn’t so complacent.
    Wired recordings from the meeting room only gave hints but nothing she could prove or prevent. Random violence and the petty shit, she had to leave to Rick and Cade. Even the local corruption wasn’t enough. She needed to get evidence on his source, but Frank kept her too leashed to know where the cocaine was coming from or even where it was headed. She needed more. The way she was going, though, who knew when—or even if—she’d ever get it.
    She’d just about fallen into a much-needed doze when someone shoved her feet off and dropped into the booth with her. Someone with the unpleasantly familiar smell of mud mixed with shit, his expansive body nearly knocking her out of her seat. The charitable part of her wanted to give the benefit of the doubt that this guy had just gotten splattered with some accidental manure on the road, but she unfortunately knew better.
    “Hawkings, if you want to keep your balls, you’d best get your ass out of my booth.”
    Instead, a meaty hand gripped down on her thigh.
    Katrina slit open her eyes.
    Eric Hawkings smiled at her. He kept the top of his head shaved, so everyone could see the tattoo of a snake coiled around his skull. His thick beard was somehow still orange despite the grime covering him from head to toe. She had never seen him clean. Worse, he had a death wish to get between her legs.
    “Move that hand before I cut it off.” She already had her switchblade open and in hand, tucked under her biceps.
    He stroked upward, his grin turning into a leer. “Hey, I just figured, since you’re already fuckin’ that cop—”
    Her blade slashed out, slicing through the top of his hand and halfway up his forearm before he managed to yank it back, swearing. Taking advantage of his preoccupation with catching his own blood, she lifted both feet and planted them on his body, kicking him unceremoniously to the floor.
    Hawkings continued his swearing, looking for something to wrap over his wound. She grabbed a napkin from the dispenser on the table to clean the knife. There wasn’t much blood on it, since the cut was only a surface one, but dammit, she shouldn’t have to slice a guy to keep him off her.
    If only that was what had her hand shaking slightly.
    There’d been a time when Hawkings wouldn’t have come anywhere near her.
    You’re in the shit now, ain’t you, Katy? She could almost hear her uncle’s smug rumble. He hadn’t cared much when she’d gotten into trouble as a kid, but he had seen it as her responsibility to get herself out of it.
    She still found it bitterly ironic that it was never her father’s gentle voice she heard when she was in trouble. It was always Red Dog, deep and graveling, taunting her into action. Something about his heartless approach to everything made the