Cherise Sinclair - Edge of the Enforcer

He unsheathed his knife and raised it so the narrow blade flashed in the light from the unshielded overhead bulb. “Where’d you hide my brother’s flash drives?”

If he made her speak, he’d learn Stanfeld had the evidence, and he might manage to escape. She didn’t want him to go free. Make him kill me before I can talk. Push him and get it over with.

She had to try twice to get her voice to work. “Fuck you.”

“Jesus, you’re dumb.” He flicked the knife across the soft flesh of her stomach, and she felt only an icy burn.

When he lifted the blade, she saw blood…and the pain blossomed into a line of fire.

“Gonna carve you up like a Sunday roast.”

“What about me?” Morales growled. “I want some of that.” He pulled his pistol and pointed it at her. “Kneecap her, and she’d talk.”

“She’d bleed out too fast, asshole.” Parnell drew the edge over her stomach again. Another line of pain.

She gritted her teeth, clinging to her refuge as the pain grew, unendurable, flattening her mind, her soul.

By the fourth line, she was screaming.

***

DeVries forced himself not to charge into the cabin. But…the sounds. His jaw muscles grated his teeth together. Fuck knew, he’d heard screams before.

Not like this. Not his Lindsey in agony.

The cabin’s drapes were drawn. Bear-proofing bars were on the windows. Silently, deVries checked the door. No visible hinges meant it opened inward, probably so drifting snow couldn’t block the door from opening. Thank fucking God.

Pistol pointed up, he positioned himself.

Masterson moved beside him and said under his breath, “Let me—”

Cops. “My woman.” DeVries ground his left heel through the snow until he hit dirt. Got stable. Lifted his right leg and slammed his boot beside the lock. The thick door splintered, didn’t budge. Shit. He kicked again. It burst open, and he dove through.

A bullet punched into his vest, taking his breath, another hit beside it.

Enemy upright with pistol. Another kneeling beside Lindsey with a blade. Ignoring the gunman, deVries put two headshots into the knife wielder.

Gunfire filled the room as the cops took up the slack. The guy standing dropped, his face gone.

Ears ringing, deVries moved. Fuck. His ribs felt like a semi had plowed into him. A burning line of pain ran up the inside of his upper arm. He holstered his SW1911, jammed his elbow against his side, and slid over to Lindsey.

Fresh fear clawed into him. Her blood was everywhere. Her eyes were closed, her color ashen. No. Fuck, no. He put two fingers against her carotid and…felt a pulse. Way too fast, yet strong. The breath he was holding escaped.

She stirred and whimpered, her brows drawing together. Jesus, he wanted to shoot the bastard again. She blinked. When she saw him, her eyes filled with tears. “You came.” Her voice was rusty.

“Hell, yeah.” He barely kept from grabbing her up. But her stomach had a series of bleeding lines, some deep enough to gape open. “She’s bleeding,” he shouted. “Dixon, get over—”

“I’m here.” Dixon dropped to his knees beside them, already pulling supplies out of the emergency pack. “Damn, girlfriend, you know how I hate blood play.” He pulled on latex gloves, covered the cuts with gauze, and pressed down.

Lindsey sucked in a pained breath and whispered a halfhearted, “Ow.”

Fuck, I love this woman.

On the other side of her, Ware yanked away Parnell’s body. “Good shot, hoss.” He crouched down and smiled at Lindsey. “Hey there.”

DeVries scowled at him. “Mine.”

“Mebbe.” Ware smirked before asking, “Lindsey, how many bad guys are here?”

“Three.” Her brow creased, and she said carefully, “Parnell, Ricks, and Morales.”

“Got it.” Ware raised his voice. “Yo, Stanfeld. There’s another perp somewhere.”

A low acknowledgment came from the agent.

Dixon stripped off his gloves and patted Lindsey’s arm. “Okay, BFF, you’re all dressed up and ready to party.”

“The lieutenant is calling for an ambulance.” Ware’s body language turned dangerous as he looked at Lindsey’s stomach. But when he took her hand, his smile was teasing. “If you change your mind about this bastard…”

“I won’t,” she whispered before looking at deVries. The love in her gaze was a river of warmth, filling him to the brim. She smiled and said softly, “ Mine. ”

Would it be safe to pick her up and hold her now? DeVries reached for her—and pain ripped through his arm. “Fuck!”

“No kidding. You’re bleeding like a stuck piggy.” Dixon grabbed deVries’s wrist, pulling his arm away from his side.

Looking down, deVries realized he was covered in blood. The bullet had nailed the inside of his biceps. Bad.

Dixon applied gauze. Held it. The white immediately turned red. “Shit, you’re really bleeding. Get the ambulance here stat, Ware! He’s going shocky.”

DeVries felt the room waver, and he shivered. Odd how the pulse in his ears was louder than anything else.

“Found Ricks,” Stanfeld called from what sounded like a mile or so away.

Stanfeld was suddenly in his face, pushing him onto his back. “Stay down, boy.”

DeVries hadn’t enough energy to punch him for the insult. Not good. They were a hell of a long way from any hospital. Ambulance probably couldn’t get here.

He saw Lindsey struggle to move closer. Her hand curled around his. “Zander.” Even drawn with worry, she had the most beautiful face he’d ever seen.

She loved him. Such a fucking unexpected gift. And as the blackness closed in over him, he grieved. So many times he’d expected to die and had lived. Now, when he had someone to live for, now he was gonna buy the farm.

Damn, he didn’t want to leave her.

The next morning, Lindsey sat beside Zander’s hospital bed. The nurse had pushed the chair next to the bed so Lindsey could reassure herself of his survival by holding his hand. His warm, warm hand.

God. She’d come too close to losing him. By the time the ambulance had arrived, his tanned face had been gray-white and his skin terrifyingly cold.

All because he’d had to be a darned hero. Virgil said Zander hadn’t waited, had busted open the door and jumped through. And, sheesh, instead of aiming at Morales, who had a gun, Zander had shot Parnell because his knife had threatened her .

Dammit. Morales’s bullet had almost killed him. “Stubborn, bullheaded idiot,” she whispered to him. She attempted to smile as she remembered how he’d told the detective “mine” in that possessive tone of voice.

She really was his—and wouldn’t want to belong to anyone else. As her eyes filled, she glanced upward, where her father undoubtedly leaned on heaven’s fence, one boot up on a rail, watching the goings-on of his children. Hey, Daddy, are you there? I have a man you’d be proud to call son.

She could swear she saw his approving nod.

Blinking happily, she toyed with Zander’s fingers. Scars on the knuckles, calluses on the palm and fingers. Short, broken fingernails. A man’s hand—the Enforcer’s hand. Able to deal out punishment as well as pleasure. Someone she could lean on, and in turn, her love would make him stronger.

From the hallway, Dixon’s raised voice drew her attention. After a minute of listening, she giggled. Were Dixon’s flirtations finally going to come to an end? Feeling unrepentantly snoopy, she pushed her chair a few inches over so she could watch the show through the partially open door.

“Listen, sweet cheeks, you don’t have any say over me,” Dixon was saying. Hands on hips, he glared up at Stan.