Aimee Thurlo - Alpha Warrior

As Nick walked down the hall he saw his brother still working out in the gym they built. They’d worked hard to make what had once been a “fixer-upper” in the middle of nowhere into the perfect home for two bachelors. Marriage wasn’t in the cards for either of them. They’d already seen too much of life to settle down with a wife and become a role model for rug rats.

THE RIDE INTO TOWN was open road, most of it down a river valley flanked by wide mesas. Nick pressed on the accelerator and felt the Jeep respond. He liked speed and the edge of danger it brought.

Before long, he entered a west side, high-end housing development, complete with a six-foot wall opposite a private golf course.

His thoughts were focused on tonight’s meeting when he came upon an apparent TA, a traffic accident, just ahead in the right-hand lane. Two vehicles, an old sedan and a big van, were side by side, contact point at the front end, just off the road. Their headlights and taillights were still on. Closing in, he noted the fresh grooves on the driver’s side of the sedan. From the looks of it, it appeared that the van had cut off the sedan and made contact—not that uncommon. At least neither vehicle had rolled or had plowed into the fence.

Nick stopped, and as he switched on his driver’s-side spotlight, he heard a blood-curdling scream. Two large figures wearing hoods were gripping a woman by the arms, trying to drag her around the rear of the sedan.

Fighting like a wildcat, she suddenly broke free. She slammed her clenched fist into the face of the man on her right, swung and kicked his partner in the groin, then raced along the fence line toward Nick.

Giving her room to pass by on his right, Nick pressed down on the accelerator. Intent on scattering her assailants, he drove right at them, giving them two choices—jump out of the way or become a hood ornament.

Drew Simmons raced down the roadside drainage ditch. The man in the Jeep who’d gone after the ones chasing her had probably just saved her life, but there was no time to thank him.

Tires squealed behind her, but she didn’t dare look back. The men chasing her were armed, and the greater the distance between them, the more difficult the shot. Drew struggled to reach the cell phone in her jacket pocket, but it had slipped down beneath where she’d stowed her glove.

As the sound of the vehicle approaching from behind grew louder, Drew swerved to her left, out of the ditch, and leaped onto the fence, grabbing the wire as high up as she could.

The black Jeep came to a screeching stop beside the curb, the acrid scent of burning rubber filling the air.

“Get in,” the man yelled. He threw open the passenger’s side door. “Hurry.”

She dropped to the ground and climbed in. The man she’d kicked was now sprinting down the road, heading straight for them, waving a pistol. The other was in the van, whipping around in the street, tires screaming. They’d catch up in seconds.

“One of them has a gun,” she said.

“Fasten your seat belt and hang on,” her rescuer said.

He pressed down on the accelerator, and she was thrown back against the seat. Drew felt around for the seat belt, snapping the shoulder strap in place. A determined look settled on her benefactor’s hard features. There was something vaguely familiar about the Navajo man, but she didn’t have time to give it much thought.

“There’s a shotgun on the rack behind us. The number for the safety lock is two-six-zero-zero. Get it loose before they catch up,” he ordered.

Having been raised around guns and taught about safety, she was familiar with the lock and storage rack. Within a few seconds she’d freed the long weapon, swung the barrel up around in front of her, and pumped a round into the chamber.

He looked at her, surprised but happy with her knowledge of guns. “Cool under pressure. And you can fight. That’s probably what saved you.”

“I know where to kick.”

“That’s good enough.”

The van had stopped to pick up the running man, but was now closing in on them.

“The police station isn’t far. Head there,” she said, looking back in the side mirror and seeing the dark van less than two car lengths behind.

“If I do, they’ll figure out what we’re doing and take off. We need another plan. There’s no time to call for backup, either.”

“You sound like a cop.”

“Detective Nick Blacksheep at your service,” he said.

“I’m Drew Simmons,” she answered. “I’m not an officer, but we work at the same place. So how do we sucker them in?”

“I like the way you think, Drew Simmons,” Nick said, and grinned. “Hang on. I’m going to pull into the golf course entrance. It’s a dead end. Once I stop, jump out on your side and use the Jeep for cover. I’ll take the shotgun. If they start shooting, make sure you stay behind the engine block.”

Nick pulled into the dead-end street. Quickly swerving to his left, he took the Jeep into a slow skid, stopping sideways to the street entrance.

Nick took aim with the shotgun, bracing it across the hood. “Stay down,” he yelled.

The van’s brakes squealed as the driver skidded to a stop, the lights illuminating the Jeep.

“Police officer. Out of the van, hands where I can see them,” Nick yelled, averting his eyes to avoid looking directly into the lights.

The van’s engine roared as the driver slammed the vehicle into Reverse, burning rubber.

Nick stepped out from behind the Jeep, and squeezed off a round of number four buckshot at the van’s driver-side front tire. Sparks flew from the ground as the vehicle fish-tailed violently.

“Stop! Police!” He fired and struck the front of the van just above the bumper.

The van continued in Reverse, then the driver hit the brakes hard. The van whipped around a full hundred and eighty degrees and raced away from them.

Nick switched the shotgun to his left hand and reached into his pocket for his cell phone. “I think I holed their radiator. They won’t get far—I hope,” he said, watching the taillights disappear into the darkness.

Drew heard him calling in his report as she joined him. “Why weren’t you carrying your service handgun? Because you’re off duty?” she asked. “No, never mind. I remember now. You’re the Blacksheep brother who tossed Ray Owens over the hood of his car. Speaking for most of the women in the PD, we stand ready to buy you the best dinner in town.”

“You said you worked for the PD, but I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” Nick said, his gaze taking her in slowly and very thoroughly.

She suppressed the shiver that ran up her spine. He was every bit as good-looking as everyone had said, but it was that intense look he was giving her, as if he could see directly into her soul, that made her tingle all the way down to her toes. “I was supposed to take over as head librarian here in town, but the hiring freeze has me doing temp work for city government instead. Right now I’m training to take over for Beth Michaels, the department’s record clerk.”

“The library’s loss is our department’s gain,” he said, giving her a steamy smile.

Her brain suddenly went into neutral and she didn’t know what to say. Horrified by her own reaction, she cleared her throat and tried to appear calm and collected. “Thanks for helping me out,” Drew said. “I’m glad I met you, Detective Blacksheep.” Drew extended her hand, then quickly pulled it back. “I’m sorry. I just remembered that people from your tribe don’t like to shake hands.”

“Not with an enemy, or a stranger, but you and I are now connected,” Nick told her.

His hand felt calloused and hard as it enveloped hers. Everything about him looked tough and unyielding—and incredibly and irresistibly male. No wonder half the women in the department had fantasies about him. Nick and Travis Blacksheep were the hot, number-one topic on the clerical staff’s minds.