Last Light by C. J. Lyons

you so much more about a man’s true intentions.
    “No disrespect intended,” Ruiz said, still trying to salvage the situation.
    The young cowboy grinned drunkenly, stumbling near to TK. “Ma’am,” he said, the syllables smushed together and carried on a wave of alcohol, “we were—I was—wondering if you’d like to dance?”
    As he finished his request, his friend shoved him into TK. She almost felt bad for the kid—until he used the encounter to squeeze her breast. His breath was hot against her face; there was no escape from it. Something sparked, an old memory, old fear she couldn’t evade took over her body and she felt as if she watched from a distance.
    In a blaze of movement TK kneed him in the groin. When he bent over in pain, she grabbed his wrist, spinning him back into Friend One, sloshing beer over them both.
    “Hey, we paid for that beer. You owe us!” Friend Two said, stepping forward, beer mug raised high, ready to strike. Until TK flicked her pool cue up as if it were a bo, hitting him in the crotch, then swinging it to sweep his leg out from under him. He landed with a thump on the floor. Ruiz stepped forward, between TK and the men, but by then it was all over.
    The noise and movement attracted the attention of the rest of the clientele—probably all locals and probably all friends of the trio. TK shifted into a fighting stance, gripping her cue stick. The sounds around her were muffled as if coming from a distance; all she heard clearly was her breathing and the pulse pounding through her skull.
    David touched her arm. She shook him off, searching for danger, for new enemy combatants. But he persisted, sliding the stick from her hands. His lips moved but she didn’t register his words.
    “Can’t a man eat his steak in peace?” a voice filled with command authority cut through the noise in TK’s head.
    The onlookers who’d scraped back their chairs and risen to their feet, ready to defend their buddies, suddenly sat back down, engrossed in their beers.
    In the wake of their sudden silence, a man strode forward, the same one who’d been talking with the cowboys earlier. He was mid-forties, dark blond hair, a little less than average height but with a greater than average swagger. He wore jeans, black cowboy boots, and a khaki shirt with no insignia on it. Could have been a ranch foreman or head of a crew of oil workers.
    Could have been. But of course, that wasn’t how TK’s luck worked.
    “Howdy, folks,” he said, touching two fingers to his forehead as if tipping a hat. “Welcome to the Sweetbriar. I’m Sheriff Blackwell and you all are under arrest.”
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter 12
     
     
    LUCY LOOKED UP from her computer, rubbed her aching eyes—Nick kept telling her she needed reading glasses, but having to keep track of the cane was bad enough—and glanced around the empty hotel room. Being alone here was so different than being alone back home. Despite the lack of ambience, it felt...exotic.
    During her fifteen years with the FBI, she’d never traveled very often. Her usual fieldwork had entailed driving to interviews then back to the office. Even then she was considered old-fashioned for wanting to interview subjects in person in their own environment instead of relying on the phone or Skype.
    It was so quiet here. No skitter-skatter of the cat chasing the dog around the hardwood floors, no grunt and whine of the refrigerator defrosting, no leaf blowers or lawn mowers running in the distance. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this alone.
    It was only 9:12. Too early to go to bed even with the time-zone difference. Yet she was exhausted. Her foot screamed to be released from the confinement of her AFO brace and her back ached from the unaccustomed sitting for so long on the plane. Despite her injury—or because of it—Lucy had gotten into the habit of spending most of her days in motion. She’d start the morning doing