Delta Force: Cannon: Wayward Souls Page 2
Cannon twisted, brought the fucker’s head down on the corner of the table. It cracked hard, left a bloody smear, then he was falling. Crumpling on the ground at Cannon’s feet.
Four seconds flat.
Until the men behind O’Mally’s table jumped up. One grabbed Blondie—yanked her against his chest. His beefy arm wrapped around her shoulders, a fucking Sig Sauger pointed toward her head. The thing was massive—more firepower than the bastard looked like he could handle. But it didn’t matter. No one missed a target that close.
His buddy was still drawing—the silencer on his gun catching on the pants. Another two seconds, and he’d have it free. Possibly firing off rounds in a panic, because his eyes were like white saucers. Huge. Unblinking. He most likely had tunnel vision—couldn’t see past his boss getting slammed into the table. That made him dangerous. Unable to process whether he should fire, only that he could.
But Cannon was already working through steps four and five. Already had his M9 in one hand, his knife in the other—his sights on the asshole holding the woman. A quick shot, and he’d clip the man’s shoulder—or better yet, peg him right between the eyes—eliminate any chance of the jerk shooting her. Cannon would have to be quick—catch the prick’s buddy with his knife before the idiot fully drew. Started shooting whoever moved.
Until the woman punched up her arm, caught the creep holding her in the chin. A drop of her weight, a twist and shove, and she had him spread out across the table, face smashed into the top. She pivoted just enough to kick the other guy in the knee, buckle his leg. Another shift, and that gun Cannon had glimpsed was in her hand—pointed at the guy stumbling against the wall behind her.
Her hair fluttered around her face, tilting off a bit to one side as she huffed, one hand holding the asshole to the table, the other leveling her Beretta at his friend. She spared Cannon a quick glance before focusing on the guy she’d kicked. “Freeze, asshole.”
The guy blinked, glanced at the O’Mally, around the bar, then nodded.
She motioned to his weapon. “On the table.”
He all but dropped it, wincing when it nearly clattered to the floor.
“Gently. Now, unless you want to go to jail with your two buddies, here, I suggest you get lost. Fast.”
He nodded, again, looked over once at Cannon then took off. Bumping into several people on his way to the door. It bounced off the wall, a cool swirl of air breezing through the bar.
She waited until the door closed then focused on Cannon, slamming the guy she was holding against the table, again, when he shifted. “Move, again, and I’ll let him deal with you.”
The asshole looked at Cannon, paled, then stilled.
Blondie smiled, finally gazing up at Cannon. She studied him for several moments then arched a brow. “Pretty sure I know most of the local hunters. You’re new. You got a name?”
“Most people call me Cannon.”
“Cannon? That’s it?”
“It’s enough. And you are?”
“Nash. Deputy U.S. Marshal Jericho Nash. And it looks like we just collared the same guy.”
Chapter Two
Jericho Nash cursed as the guy—Cannon—smiled. He shouldn’t smile, not like that. It did something to his face—morphed it from bruiser to pure sex appeal in under a heartbeat. One second, he resembled something out of a slasher movie—hard. Lethal. Ready to wage war. Then the next, his lips lifted, and his eyes softened, and—he was 007. All suave, handsome features with a body that looked as if he could tackle a tank. Tackle a tank and win because his muscles had muscles. His arms were as thick as most men’s thighs, but he carried it off. Managed to appear athletic and graceful, and she didn’t doubt he could vault over the table. Maybe parkour off the wall and land behind her.
But the last thing she needed was to get involved with a bounty hunter. Even if involved only meant a few rounds of sex. A night. Maybe two.
Butterflies scrambled in her stomach as a warm feeling settled in her core. Damn, one stray thought, and she was practically drooling over the guy. Not her best night. Though, based on how the evening had just played out, she should have expected it. Adrenaline rush aside, getting rescued—by a bounty hunter, no less—had pretty much landed her at rock bottom. Other than getting shot or punched, her collar had gone as wrong as humanly possible. And all because she’d been stupid enough to believe her partner might actually show up, this time.
She was going to kill Dave. Long and slow. And she was going to enjoy every second of it. After she cleaned up this mess.
Cannon’s muscles eased as he holstered his gun and knife, crossing his arms and standing there as if he had all the time in the world. As if he hadn’t just taken O’Mally out in about five seconds flat. Christ, she hadn’t even seen him draw his weapons before she was staring down the barrel of his M9. She would have been worried she’d read his intentions wrong—was in serious danger of getting shot—if he hadn’t been focused on the spot just over her left shoulder—right where the bastard’s head was who’d grabbed her. And she had no doubts this Cannon guy could have landed a shot right between the idiot’s eyes. That only left the knife. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what he’d intended to do with it.
Throw it at the other guy. Pin him to the wall with it. Gut everyone in the building for fun. Anything seemed possible.
Cannon swept his gaze down the length of her, absently kicking at O’Malley when the bastard attempted to push onto one elbow. Cannon bent over, grabbed the creep and bodily planted the man’s ass in the chair, securing his hands before banging O’Mally’s head on the table. “Marshal? That’s…unexpected.”
She snorted as she retrieved a pair of linked zip ties out of her purse—slipping them around the bodyguard’s wrists. “Please. I knew you’d made me the moment I saw your eyes.”
“True. But I was thinking more along the lines of a cop. Fed. Maybe another hunter. Marshal didn’t even make it on the list, sweetheart.”
Her lips twitched at the endearment. No one had called her anything other than ma’am or bitch in a long time. It sounded…dangerously intimate.
“You thought I was a bounty hunter? What part of this outfit screams hunter?”
“The gun in your purse.”
She laughed. Damn, it had been forever since she’d been surprised. “You saw that?”
He shrugged, motioning to the guy still pinned to the table. “So, when did you realize those two creeps sitting behind you were his bodyguards?”
“I…” She’d suspected—had been pretty damn sure O’Mally didn’t go anywhere without a few armed thugs to do his bidding—but she hadn’t positively identified which of the men still scattered around the bar were his. In fact, she’d bet her money on the two guys playing pool until they’d started shoving each other.
Cannon grunted. “You hadn’t.”
“I knew he’d have some men. And I was watching them, but your little takedown kind of threw a wrench in my plans.”
“Which plan was that? The one where they knocked you out? Or maybe where you didn’t make it home?”
Jericho straightened. “I’m a federal marshal. I can handle myself. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
“Never said you couldn’t or that it was. But three against one?” He shook his head. “Not great odds for anyone. And since when do marshals go after felons on their own? Don’t you have a partner or two?”
“He…must have got detained.”
“He ditched you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. It’s written across your face. In the rigid line of your back. The way you scrunch your nose. Fuck… So, why didn’t you back down? Let O’Mally go?”
“Did you miss the part where I’m a federal marshal? It’s my duty—”
“To not get yourself killed over some lowlife like Nigel O’Mally. You can always hunt his ass down, again—assuming you keep yours in one piece.”
She hitched out one hip. “So,
you expect me to just turn a blind eye when I see a wanted felon because it’s dangerous? Sorry, I don’t operate that way. Being a marshal isn’t something I turn on and off.”
He pressed his lips together—damn, he had a perfect mouth—giving her the once over. “You didn’t come here dressed like that on a chance. You were fishing. You knew he’d be here, and you were planning on reeling him in.”
“How do you know this isn’t my usual attire?”
He snorted. “Call it a hunch if it makes you feel better. Am I wrong?”
“You’d like it if I said no.”
“You just did.” He arched a brow. “Does your absent partner know he could have gotten you killed tonight?”
“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for why he didn’t make it. And no one’s dying here, tonight.”
“Damn straight. Not on my watch.” He rolled his shoulders, glancing between the two men. He looked as if he was mulling something over before he shook his head and smiled—that same killer tilt of his lips that did odd things to her chest. Made her heart kick up against her rib cage. “Do you have a vehicle outside?”
“Wrangler. Why?”
“Unless you were planning on dragging him across the floor, you’ll need a hand. I’m betting he’s at least two-twenty.”
“I’d guess two-forty, and I can just wait until he’s conscious enough to stumble.”
“And chance he might try to escape or worse? I’ll carry him for you.”
She shook her head. “Who are you? And why are you being so…nice?”
“Already told you my name. And you’re a marshal, and O’Mally’s a wanted felon. I’m just doing the right thing.”
“A felon with a fifty-thousand dollar bounty on his head. The one you were obviously hoping to cash in on.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“So…you’re just going to give him to me? No whining or begging? No trying to outsmart me? You’ll just hand him over?”
“You sound surprised.”
“Maybe because that never happens in these situations—when I cross paths with other hunters. Usually, I have to threaten to throw a few asses in jail for obstruction of justice before I get a begrudged collar.”
A chuckle. All gravelly and deep. Like the hum of a bass speaker. “Sounds like you’ve been dealing with the wrong guys, sweetheart. Don’t get me wrong. I had plans for the money—”
“What kind of plans?”
“Excuse me?”
“For the money. What were you going to do with it?”
Another glance up and down her—as if he was measuring her up. Deciding if she met some secret criteria in order to know the answer. Not that she blamed him. She was being more than a bit intrusive, but—there was just something about him. A sense of honor she hadn’t come across with other bounty hunters. It piqued her curiosity, not to mention her damn libido. The one she needed to get control of before she did something she’d regret.
Silence.
Awkward, numbing silence.
“Forget I asked.”
“I’m hoping to expand my business. Hire a few…friends.”
“You’re starting a bounty hunting business?”
“Trust me. Being a Bail Bond Recovery Agent isn’t my dream job, but… Let’s just say there aren’t that many venues for my particular skill set.”
“Your particular skill set? Christ, please tell me you’re not former CIA?”
Another low laugh. “No.”
“Whew.” She relaxed a bit, shoving at the guy still bent over the table. “Good. You had me worried for a moment. But if you’re not CIA…”
She studied him more closely. Short dark hair, a healthy dose of scruff. He was dressed in jeans, shirt and a jacket—nothing out of the ordinary. She glanced at his feet—boots. Black. Worn. They’d seen some mileage. She skipped her gaze back up to his face, noting the hint of silver around his neck. Crap.
She groaned. “Ex-military? Really?”
“Were you hoping for assassin?”
No wonder he seemed to have honor shoved up his ass. Which meant his “friends” were most likely ex-military, too. Guys he’d fought with. Brothers. It also explained the hard edge that only faded when he smiled. The sense of death that hung around him like a shroud. She’d been too focused on O’Mally—on not getting shot—to pick up on it before. But now… There was no escaping it. This guy was definitely a class-A predator.
She’d bet her ass he hadn’t been doing run-of-the-mill grunt work in the service, either. He’d seen action—the kind that screamed Special Forces. She just wasn’t sure which branch.
“Can you do me a favor? Keep an eye on these two while I make a quick trip to the ladies’ room? I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“You need to pee? Now?”
“I’ve been knocking back sparking water for a couple of hours without a break. Is it too much for you, or do you got somewhere else you need to be?”
“Fine. Go. I’ll be waiting.”
She shoved the bodyguard into a chair then headed for the restrooms, resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder. While she hadn’t been lying about the water, she hadn’t really needed to use the facilities. In fact, she was too wired to even sit. But…
She needed some air. Standing that close to Cannon—nothing seemed to work. Her lungs, her brain, her mouth. It was as if they’d all just shut down. Turned to mush and dripped onto the floor. At least in here, she could splash some water on her face—get out of the wig, clothes and makeup she’d had to parade around in all night. If she was going to take in a couple of felons, she should look like a marshal. And if Cannon also got a chance to see that side of her—the real side—it wasn’t a bad thing.
Not that she cared. She didn’t, did she?
She lost the wig then grabbed a towelette out of her purse and wiped it across her face, removing the caked foundation and extra thick eye liner. She didn’t have time to reapply even a fraction of what she’d had on, but she’d rather go without. Cannon had been right. She’d come to the bar knowing O’Mally would be there—a tip from an informant who still owed her a few favors. A fact her boss would figure out if she showed up as she had to the bar. And the last thing she needed was him cornering her as to the whereabouts of her absentee partner.
She was definitely going to kill Dave. If Cannon hadn’t turned out to be one of the last few good guys out there…
Jericho rolled her shoulders, took a deep breath, then quickly changed—thankful she’d put some jeans and a tee in her purse. She was jumping the gun. Making assumptions about a man she’d just met. One who could have wrestled O’Mally into the back of his vehicle and taken off, by now. Which was another reason she’d ventured to the restroom. She was curious if his offer only lasted until she was out of sight. Or if he’d simply wait the five minutes she’d spent in the ladies’ room—guard the men as he’d promised.
She had a habit of trusting the wrong guys. One she was itching to break. Better she figure that aspect out, now. If he intended on starting his own business, they’d likely run into each other, again. And she wanted to know if he’d have her back if things went sideways. Or if she’d have to spend every encounter watching that he didn’t stick a knife in her back, instead.
The door creaked as she walked out, rounding the corner before nearly tripping. Cannon was standing behind the table—just like he’d been when she’d left. O’Mally was slumped in the chair in front of Cannon, barely conscious. The bodyguard hadn’t moved, his gaze focused on the top of the table.
A smile tugged at her mouth, but she managed to keep it to nothing more than a small lift of one corner. Cannon glanced over at her, turned then snapped his head back. He didn’t hide his obvious perusal, those hard eyes finding, then holding, hers.
Copper. How had she missed what color they were before? How they practically shimmered in the light? Not quite brown or hazel. Not even a combination. They were…stunning.
She stopped a f
ew feet back, chest tight, breath held. The man was huge. She’d realized that before, but she’d been caught up in the takedown. In keeping the guy pinned to the table. After spending a few hours next to Nigel O’Mally, she’d grown accustomed to feeling small. But Cannon had at least twenty pounds on O’Mally and a few inches. She wasn’t short at five-eight, but Cannon dwarfed her.
He raised a brow, motioning to her. “I knew that blonde color was all wrong.”
“Not sure red is any better—”
“It goes with your eyes.”
He’d noticed her eyes?
She pushed at a few strands tickling her face, questioning if she should have kept it up in the ponytail. “Thanks for waiting.”
“Wouldn’t want to fail the first test you gave me, sweetheart, now, would I?” He snorted at her sharp inhalation. “You were wondering if I’d take off with O’Mally.”
“That’s silly. I was just—”
“It’s impolite to lie to my face, Jericho.”
God, the way he said her name. That deep voice—the lingering echo of it through the air. It made the room heat, her damn pulse quicken. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear this was some kind of instant attraction. Lust at first sight. Maybe a moment out of time, just like in the movies.
But she knew better. She didn’t have moments. Didn’t have much of anything outside of work. Becoming a marshal had taken more than simple dedication and hard work. It had taken sacrifice. Her love life being at the top of the list.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat—the one making it insanely hard to do anything other than stand there and stare at Cannon. Hands trembling slightly. Her gaze locked on his. “You’re right. It was a test. But I’m starting to think maybe I’m the one who failed it.”
A gravelly laugh that didn’t help her breathe easier. “There’s still time for a retake.”
“I suppose there is. So, Cannon—”
“It’s Sloan. Rick Sloan.”
“I think I like Cannon, better. It’s what I assume your buddies call you. Makes me think of this as more of a partnership. Dare I say, budding friendship? Either way, I was going to ask if you had a vehicle outside.”