Kara Lennox - Outside the Law

Beth stifled a gasp. “Daniel, he didn’t—”

“I know he didn’t kill anyone,” Daniel said impatiently. “But we have lots of innocent people depending on us. Having one of our key employees accused of murder, no matter how ridiculous the charge, could damage us beyond repair. I will stand behind Mitch a hundred percent. But I won’t have him dragged off in cuffs from our offices, in front of TV cameras. Which is exactly what could happen if Mitch doesn’t cooperate.”

Beth swallowed, her mouth going dry. She’d known things could get bad for Mitch, and for everyone who worked at Project Justice as well as their clients. Why didn’t Mitch see it?

“I’ll go right now, Daniel. I’ll find him. I’ll convince him.”

She tried calling Mitch’s cell, then his home, but got voice mail both times. He was very good at ignoring a ringing phone when he didn’t want to talk. “You can run, but you can’t hide,” Beth murmured as she grabbed her purse and headed out the door, putting her assistant, Cassie, in charge for the rest of the afternoon.

Mitch’s house was less than ten miles from downtown and close to the I-610 loop, but it had kind of a rural feel, with a cow pasture across the street and an oil field next door.

Rush hour hadn’t gotten a good grip on the city at three in the afternoon, so the trip to his home only took a few minutes. She pulled into the driveway and saw that his Harley was there. Good. But she didn’t get out right away. She sat in the car, composing in her mind exactly what she would say to him.

By following him home, she was pushing the bounds of their friendship. But she couldn’t sit back and allow him to be railroaded right into prison. Her job had presented her with too many examples of innocent men and women, accused of crimes, who had made their situations so much worse by going into denial.

Mitch’s house was cute, Beth had to admit, even if the locale wasn’t ideal. The white brick house had red shutters and a trellis shading the front porch, on which grew trumpet vine and morning glories poised to burst into bloom. Mitch kept everything in good repair, but Beth couldn’t help thinking, as she mounted the front steps, that the place could use a woman’s touch.

She rang the bell. When he didn’t answer after a few moments, she rang again and knocked. “Mitch? I know you’re in there. You better just come to the door, because I’m not leaving. We have to talk.”

Still nothing. No sound.

Determined, she walked around the house and let herself into the backyard through the gate in the honeysuckle-choked chain-link fence. The patio and yard were empty, but she found the sliding glass door unlocked.

Nervous sweat broke out on her upper lip as she opened it. “Mitch?”

She was about to go inside when she heard something, a strange noise punctuating the silence.

Smack, smack, smack. And the unmistakable sound of a human male exerting himself. The noise was not coming from inside the house, but behind her. From the yard…no, beyond the yard. Beyond the fence, into the otherwise still oil field.

What the hell?

Curiosity killed the cat, she reminded herself as she abandoned the sliding glass door and went in search of the source of the sound.

The back gate had been left ajar. As a trained crime scene investigator, she should have noticed that before. Mindful of her heels on the uneven ground, she crept through the gate and followed the strange sounds to another fence, a beat-up chain-link enclosure surrounding an old grasshopper pump.

She could see no way in, so she cleared away some of the tall weeds and peered through the gap she’d created.

Her breath caught in her throat. Finally she’d found Mitch, and he appeared to be beating the crap out of a punching bag, pounding it with his fists, bare feet, elbows and knees.

She was at once fascinated and horrified. Here was a male in the prime of his health and vitality, shirtless, muscles rippling and sheened with sweat. He was beautiful…and terrifying.

Her jaw throbbed and she rubbed it, trying hard not to think about the damage Mitch’s fists could do to a human being.

Suddenly he growled like a wild animal and rushed at the punching bag headfirst, hitting it so hard that it disconnected from the chain and crashed to the broken concrete at the base of the pump. The chain that had held it suspended whipped around and struck Mitch in the shoulder, but he seemed to not notice. He was intent on doing more damage to the bag, kicking it savagely with his heel. Then he jumped on top of it and beat it a few more times with his fists.

She must have made some kind of noise, because he slowly stilled his fists, then turned his head and looked right at her.

Embarrassed to have been caught staring at what should have been a private moment for Mitch, she wanted to shrink back behind the weeds and creep away. But it was too late.

“Beth?” He looked both surprised and…yes, apprehensive.

“I c-couldn’t find you and I heard something strange,” she stammered out. “I didn’t mean to spy but, Mitch…” She gained a bit of confidence when he didn’t aim his obvious anger at her. “What the hell is all this?”

Gasping for air, he slowly rose from straddling the bag and regained his feet. “This is where I work out.”

“Here?”

“Why not here? There’s plenty of space for my gear, and no one else is using it. And it’s private. Or it’s supposed to be,” he said pointedly. He grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat off his face, neck and shoulders, then picked up a water bottle, tipped back his head and took a long draw.

Beth watched, fascinated, as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and the cords of his neck flexed and relaxed.

She shook her head to clear it, ordering her runaway libido into line. Mitch’s body wasn’t hers to ogle. She was here on a mission.

“What kind of workout is this?” she asked, stalling. “Are you some kind of black belt killing machine?” She said it with a nervous laugh. She’d known Mitch was fit. No one who filled out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt like he did sat in front of a computer all the time.

“I’m not a black belt anything.” He sounded defensive. “It’s just a good way to stay in shape and work off stress.”

“Is it working?”

He peeled off his gloves, which were not like any boxing gloves Beth had ever seen, not that she ever paid much attention. They were small, and didn’t cover his fingers. She’d seen bruises and cuts on Mitch’s hands before, but he claimed to have gotten them doing yard work or fixing his bike.

“I’m not bouncing off the walls anymore, so, yeah, I guess it helps. Beth, what are you doing here?”

“Come out of that cage and let’s talk. Please,” she added, since he was under no obligation to speak to her after she’d followed him uninvited and spied on his workout.

He scooped up his discarded T-shirt and threw it on. Beth mourned the loss as he covered up those beautiful pecs and the washboard abs, but it was better this way. Mitch was distracting enough even when he wasn’t the next closest thing to completely naked.

Mitch gathered up his gloves, towel and water bottle. But rather than exiting through a gate, he peeled back a section of fencing that had been snipped open with bolt cutters and levered himself through, managing not to catch anything on the raggedly cut chain links.

But he was bleeding, where that punching bag chain had caught him on the shoulder. “You’re injured.”

“Hmm?”

She pointed to his shoulder and he looked, disinterested. “Oh.” He swiped at the blood with his towel, then seemed to forget about it.

“Doesn’t it hurt? And look at your knuckles.” They were red and swollen, and one of them had a small cut. More blood. Beth was torn between the desire to nurse him with antiseptic and bandages and an even stronger need to turn away in revulsion.