because there really wasn’t any other option.
He’d had one bit of luck tonight, though. C. Smith had already been on his way to Panama when Kid had called. Their buddy Miguel had been flying him up from Covenas, a town on the coast, and if Miguel’s plane had held together, C. Smith should be walking through Rueben’s door any minute, and any minute wouldn’t be a second too soon. Kid was starting to feel a little sick—lovesick, heartsick, and plain old “I got gut-punched in my stitches and I’m bleeding all over my shirt” sick.
Fuck.
The last report he’d gotten from the DEA guys standing guard down in the bar was that the police and a couple of agents were still at his house and still searching the neighborhood. If by some chance Conseco was in Panama City, they wanted to know it sooner rather than later. There was nothing any of them would like better than to catch the sonuvabitch outside of his fortress in Medellín. Dozens of law enforcement agencies in half a dozen countries would love to be the ones to take Juan Conseco down.
C. Smith wouldn’t want to miss the chance, and neither did Kid, but if everything went according to his plan, Smith was going to be hell and gone out of luck.
“. . . and I guess, well, I guess that’s what it comes down to.”
Wait a minute. Kid sat up straighter, refocusing his attention on her. She’d actually been leading up to a point for the last half-hour, not just rambling, and he’d missed it? Unfuckingbelievable.
“I mean the two of you are so different. Rocky never could have killed those men, not in a million years,” she said, leaning closer, lowering her voice, and breaking the hell out of his rule.
Then Rocky would have been dead, he could have told her, and her right along with him.
“But you did, and I don’t know how. I mean I saw the whole thing, and I still don’t—”
“Nikki, don’t.” He shook his head, warning her to stop, but she was having none of it this time.
She leaned even closer. “The killings—what you did, I never knew anyone could be so . . . so . . .
savage
.”
Savage.
That was it? Her whole point? That he was a savage and her fiancé wasn’t?
He was stunned speechless.
Fortunately, he didn’t have time to dwell on her misinformed, misplaced, mis-everything-wrong-about-it freakin’ opinion, because someone was coming up the stairs.
Ignoring the pain in his side, and slipping real damn easily back into “savage” mode, he rose from his chair and crossed the room. He had his .45 drawn, racked, and ready to fire before he cleared the desk. Chances were it was one of the DEA guys, but it was the off chance where Kid made his living.
Geezus.
Savage.
He should have seen that one coming.
He stationed himself by the door, ready for whatever came down next, but the voice that came from the other side along with a brief knock was thankfully familiar. He lowered his gun and reached for the knob.
THE first thing C. Smith noticed when he entered the office was that Kid was wound tighter than an Arkansas tick. The second thing he noticed was the woman.
She was also the third thing he noticed, and the fourth—
Sweet Jesus.
This was Nikki McKinney? The girl Kid Chaos had left behind in Denver?
His gaze went over her again, strictly professionally, taking in the bloodstains on her dress, the tear tracks on her cheeks, the paleness of her skin—the shape of her legs, the curves of her breasts, and the wild, out-there beauty of her face. She was incredible, a guaranteed, ball-busting heartbreaker.
“Cut it out, Smith,” Kid growled. Actually, snarled was more like it.
Smith couldn’t help himself—he grinned from ear to ear. Kid had it bad.
He turned back to his partner, and instantly sobered.
“You look like shit,” he said, being kind.
“Thanks.”
He checked the boy out, saw the last damn thing he wanted to see, and swore under his breath.
“I didn’t save your ass in Banco Nuevo so
He’d had one bit of luck tonight, though. C. Smith had already been on his way to Panama when Kid had called. Their buddy Miguel had been flying him up from Covenas, a town on the coast, and if Miguel’s plane had held together, C. Smith should be walking through Rueben’s door any minute, and any minute wouldn’t be a second too soon. Kid was starting to feel a little sick—lovesick, heartsick, and plain old “I got gut-punched in my stitches and I’m bleeding all over my shirt” sick.
Fuck.
The last report he’d gotten from the DEA guys standing guard down in the bar was that the police and a couple of agents were still at his house and still searching the neighborhood. If by some chance Conseco was in Panama City, they wanted to know it sooner rather than later. There was nothing any of them would like better than to catch the sonuvabitch outside of his fortress in Medellín. Dozens of law enforcement agencies in half a dozen countries would love to be the ones to take Juan Conseco down.
C. Smith wouldn’t want to miss the chance, and neither did Kid, but if everything went according to his plan, Smith was going to be hell and gone out of luck.
“. . . and I guess, well, I guess that’s what it comes down to.”
Wait a minute. Kid sat up straighter, refocusing his attention on her. She’d actually been leading up to a point for the last half-hour, not just rambling, and he’d missed it? Unfuckingbelievable.
“I mean the two of you are so different. Rocky never could have killed those men, not in a million years,” she said, leaning closer, lowering her voice, and breaking the hell out of his rule.
Then Rocky would have been dead, he could have told her, and her right along with him.
“But you did, and I don’t know how. I mean I saw the whole thing, and I still don’t—”
“Nikki, don’t.” He shook his head, warning her to stop, but she was having none of it this time.
She leaned even closer. “The killings—what you did, I never knew anyone could be so . . . so . . .
savage
.”
Savage.
That was it? Her whole point? That he was a savage and her fiancé wasn’t?
He was stunned speechless.
Fortunately, he didn’t have time to dwell on her misinformed, misplaced, mis-everything-wrong-about-it freakin’ opinion, because someone was coming up the stairs.
Ignoring the pain in his side, and slipping real damn easily back into “savage” mode, he rose from his chair and crossed the room. He had his .45 drawn, racked, and ready to fire before he cleared the desk. Chances were it was one of the DEA guys, but it was the off chance where Kid made his living.
Geezus.
Savage.
He should have seen that one coming.
He stationed himself by the door, ready for whatever came down next, but the voice that came from the other side along with a brief knock was thankfully familiar. He lowered his gun and reached for the knob.
THE first thing C. Smith noticed when he entered the office was that Kid was wound tighter than an Arkansas tick. The second thing he noticed was the woman.
She was also the third thing he noticed, and the fourth—
Sweet Jesus.
This was Nikki McKinney? The girl Kid Chaos had left behind in Denver?
His gaze went over her again, strictly professionally, taking in the bloodstains on her dress, the tear tracks on her cheeks, the paleness of her skin—the shape of her legs, the curves of her breasts, and the wild, out-there beauty of her face. She was incredible, a guaranteed, ball-busting heartbreaker.
“Cut it out, Smith,” Kid growled. Actually, snarled was more like it.
Smith couldn’t help himself—he grinned from ear to ear. Kid had it bad.
He turned back to his partner, and instantly sobered.
“You look like shit,” he said, being kind.
“Thanks.”
He checked the boy out, saw the last damn thing he wanted to see, and swore under his breath.
“I didn’t save your ass in Banco Nuevo so
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