Cheri shrugged. “The Colombians still need distributors. We’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll get a gig at another club and set something up there.”

Brandon leaned his elbow on the bar. “I don’t know. It was perfect having an inside man at the Feds like DeLaud.”

“Hey, there’s money in a deal like this. There will be someone else like DeLaud come along. We’ll make it work again.”

He laughed. “I guess you’re right. At least we came through this free and clear.”

“And we have each other now.” She slid off the barstool and moved in between his outstretched legs, twining her arms around him. “I didn’t even have to divorce Lance.”

Brandon wrapped his arms around her. “Or kill him.”

She laughed.

Shadoe shook her head. What unbelievable scum. They thought they were in the clear? They were wrong. She reached around for the gun tucked into her waistband, but as she did, the door creaked, and both Brandon and Cheri spotted her.

“What the f**k is she still doing here?” Cheri screeched and took off running after Shadoe. Shadoe pulled her gun and pushed through the doorway, but before she could get set Cheri leaped on her, knocking the gun out of her hands. Cheri landed on top of her, knocking the breath out of her. Brandon grabbed the gun and stood over her, pointing the barrel at her face.

She struggled to suck in oxygen. Cheri sat on her stomach, and Brandon loomed over her, a murderous look on his face.

“You’re dead, bitch,” Cheri said.

This wasn’t looking good. Shadoe was in deep shit.

Cheri reared back and the last thing Shadoe saw was a fist coming toward her face. She braced for impact.

EIGHTEEN

SPENCE HATED CLEANUP, THE PART AFTER A CASE HAD COME to an end, and all that was left was tying up all the loose ends, followed by paperwork. The paperwork would come after they returned to Dallas, so at least he didn’t have to worry about that right now. But there were interviews, talking to all the players, liaising with the head Fed in charge, and doing verbal reports.

All of those things kept him from doing what he loved best, which was the action. None of this standing around and bullshit-ting was action, but it was a necessary part of his job.

Right now they had amassed the group of DeLaud’s henchmen and were conducting on-site interviews to see if any of them would spill their guts before they decided to lawyer up. Sullen, silent, they stood cuffed and separated from each other, each being interviewed by a separate DEA agent and an interpreter. Spence wandered among them all, listening in on snippets of the interviews. So far not much was going on. He stopped to talk to John Jacobs, the agent in charge.

“Anything?”

“This one here looks scared shitless. Says he has a wife and four kids back in Colombia and wants to make a deal. Considering we don’t think he has much to offer, we’re willing to listen first and see if he has anything of value.”

Spence decided to hang nearby to hear what the guy had to say. He was pretty young for having four kids, but what did Spence know? Maybe the guy started early? The interpreter asked the questions, and the guy shot back in rapid-fire Spanish, gesturing wildly. The interpreter listened, then turned to John.

“He says DeLaud was definitely in charge, reported back to Captain Morales. They’ve been doing these shipments for about three years now, and the ship would come in three times a year with co**ine and heroin. They’d off-load to the waiting boat, then the boat would deliver the drugs in booze boxes to the Wild Rose. The booze boxes would be tossed out back as empties, to be picked up by the club and distributed from there.”

“Nice setup,” Spence said.

“Yeah.”

The agent asked questions through the interpreter. The guy started talking some more, and the interpreter arched a brow and turned to John. “He says he’s never seen that dead guy before.”

Spence went cold. “Lance?”

“Yeah. He said they dealt with the club owner.”

“That would be Brandon.”

The guy nodded. “Sí, Brandon.” Then he started talking again, the interpreter listened, and turned to John when he was finished.

“He also said some tall blond chick was usually around. One of the strippers. She was Brandon’s girlfriend. Cherry or something.”

“Cheri?” Spence asked. “That’s Lance’s wife.”

Spence did an about-face, searching the deck. His skin prickled with unease as he looked for Shadoe, but didn’t see her.

“Have you seen Agent Grayson?”

The agents around him just shrugged.

Not good. He spun on his heel and ran the entire deck until he found AJ. “Where did Shadoe go?”

“She took DeLaud’s car and went back to the club to tell Cheri about Lance and let Brandon know everything that went down.”

Spence’s heart slammed hard against his chest. “Sonofabitch. Brandon and Cheri are the inside people.”

AJ’s eyes widened. “What?”

He jammed his hand in his pocket where he’d shoved his earpiece earlier. He slid it into his ear now.

He heard heavy breathing. Moaning. Then voices.

“Let me kill her and get it over with.”

“Not yet. I want her to wake up first. Then I’m going to have some fun.”

Brandon’s voice. Cheri’s. Fuck.

“Grab Pax. She’s at the club with them. Hurt. We’ve gotta go now.”

FOR SOMEONE TALL AND SLENDER, CHERI WAS SURPRISINGLY strong. Shadoe was no lightweight, but she’d had the wind knocked out of her so Cheri had the advantage landing on top of her like that. And the first punch to her face had knocked her senseless.

Cheri was obviously a street fighter, and didn’t mind getting her knuckles bruised. Shadoe was still trying to regain her senses when Brandon grabbed her by the shirt and hauled her to her feet. Dizzy, disoriented, she could barely stand upright when Cheri hit her the second time. She went barreling backward through the double doors leading to the dressing room, tumbling end over end and thankful for the thick carpeting when she hit her head.

Jesus, that hurt.

She had to focus, had to grab her wits. She was damn lucky Brandon—who now had her gun—hadn’t just shot her.

“Quit f**king around. Let me just kill her,” he said.

“Hell no. This bitch has had it coming since the minute she stepped foot in our club. I’m going to beat her until she’s dead.”

Fine with Shadoe. Fists she could handle. A bullet was a much more permanent solution, so the longer she could put that off, the better. When Cheri came for her this time, Shadoe was a bit more clearheaded—and sufficiently pissed off.

Shadoe dodged her and Cheri went sprawling facedown on the carpet. Now it was her turn to jump on top of Cheri. She wrenched her arm behind her back and gave a quick jerk.

Cheri screamed, kicked her feet back, and tried to buck Shadoe off, but Shadoe had her weight on top now and she wasn’t about to budge.

Until the butt end of a pistol whipped the side of her head. Pain knifed through her skull and she let go of Cheri’s arm, grabbed her head with both hands, and Cheri threw her off. Shadoe crashed against the wall and landed prone.

“Goddammit, that hurt.” Hot, sticky wetness trickled down her fingers.

Blood. Shadoe pressed her fingers against the wound. Great. Now she was dizzy, nauseous, and everything was growing fuzzy. She forced herself to stay conscious. She glared up at Brandon, determined to do whatever it took to stay alive for as long as she could. “Don’t think your girlfriend can take care of herself?”

Brandon, who she’d thought was such a nice guy, leered down at her now. God, she’d gotten that so wrong.

“Doesn’t really matter what you say. You’re not going to live through the night.” He raised the gun but Cheri scrambled to her feet and grabbed his arm, pushing the barrel away from Shadoe. She’d like to be grateful, but she knew it was only temporary.

“No, dammit. Not yet. I’m not finished with her.”

Panting, disoriented, and just plain sick to her stomach, Shadoe dragged herself to a sitting position, refusing to let this skank get the best of her. She had to clear her head, had to think about how she could get Cheri out of the way, then disarm Brandon.

Not easy with a bleeding head wound and already beaten by the crazy woman. The odds weren’t in her favor. No one knew about Brandon and Cheri’s role in the drug-smuggling operation. Spence would be busy with the Feds on board the ship for a while and would expect her to return there . . . eventually. They weren’t going to come looking for her.

She was dead and she knew it. But she wasn’t going to let them kill her while she just sat there. She pushed herself up the wall and braced herself against it—no easy feat considering she no doubt had a concussion. Cheri watched her, a smug, victorious smile on her face.

“Finish this, Cheri,” Brandon said. “Or I will.”

The room spun, and Cheri did, too, actually. Shadoe knew it was a product of her head wound, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. She thought about pushing off the wall and launching herself at Cheri, but knew that would be pointless as she’d either fall on her face or miss the woman entirely. So she waited, her right hand tucked behind her, fingers curled into a tight fist. She didn’t have a lot left, but she reserved it for Cheri’s attack.

When Cheri came for her, Shadoe resisted the urge to sink down, to sidestep. Instead, she waited until just the moment when Cheri was in range. Then she pulled her arm out, hauled it back, and used every ounce of strength she possessed to slam her fist right in the middle of Cheri’s face. Bone crunched as her knuckles connected with the cartilage in Cheri’s nose. Blood spurted everywhere, and her hand hurt like a sonofabitch.

But she’d hit the spot. Cheri’s eyes slid back in her head and she crumpled like an accordion, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Shadoe didn’t even look at her. She bent down, grabbed one of her stilettos, and while Brandon was busy gaping down at his girlfriend, she took the heel end of her shoe and slammed it down on top of his head. The action caused him to raise his gun arm, which she reached for with both hands. Weakened, she didn’t have much strength to fight him, but she intended to hold on as long as she could.

At least she’d wounded him. Blood poured down his face, into his eyes, forcing him to fight her for the gun and drop his forehead onto his upper arm to wipe away the blood.

Strengthened by Brandon’s weakness, she fought harder, using everything she had at her disposal. She kicked him with her remaining shoe, pounding down on the top of his foot. He groaned out a curse, pushed against her. She elbowed him in the ribs but he was stronger, finally pushing her hard enough that she lost hold of his arm. She went flying to the ground and immediately rolled over, intent on pushing to her feet.

But it was too late. He had one hand over his face to wipe away the blood, the other pointing the gun at her.

She braced herself for the bullet, praying it would be quick and painless. The explosion of gunfire deafened her and she jerked.

But it was Brandon whose eyes widened in shock. His chest spread with crimson. He flew backward and hit the ground, even in death his eyes still bearing that surprised look.

She was pretty damned shocked herself, had the urge to check her arms and legs and body to determine where the bullet hole was. But other than her throbbing head and bruised body, she hadn’t been shot.

The gunfire had come from behind her. She craned her neck around to see Spence holding a gun, AJ and Pax flanking him.

Relief sent her reeling; the tension drained immediately from her body.

He’d found her. He’d come. How had he known?

Spence pocketed the gun and ran to her side, dropping to the floor. He scooped her against him and cradled her in his arms.

“Jesus, you’re a mess.”

She smiled up at him. “Thanks.”

He wasn’t smiling. “Are you okay?”

Now that it was over and she was safe, she felt oblivion coming. She struggled against it. There was so much she wanted to tell him. “I don’t feel so good.”

That was all she managed before blackness descended.

SPENCE PACED OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL ROOM, STOPPING AT THE closed door to glare at it.

Not that it did much good.

They’d had her in there for eight hours—minus the time they’d wheeled her out for a CAT scan, and he hadn’t had a second to even see her. He’d sent Pax and AJ back to Dallas. He wasn’t leaving. Not until he knew what was going on.

Damn doctors never told you anything.

And the Department of Justice had already informed him that as soon as the doctors cleared it they were moving her back to D.C. to a hospital there.

Not back to Dallas. Not with him.

She wasn’t his, after all.

Goddammit.

He went to the nurse’s station outside the emergency room for the fiftieth time. The same stern-looking woman glared back at him.

“No, you still can’t go in. They’re running tests.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

“I’m sure they’ll be finished soon.”

This was such bullshit.

He’d never felt so powerless in his life.

He leaned against the counter as one of the guys in the white coats who he’d seen in Shadoe’s room came up bearing a clipboard.

“They’re releasing Ms. Grayson to the waiting private ambulance, where she’ll be flown by jet to D.C. I’ve signed off.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Spence stepped up. “How is she?”

“She’s stable. She has a severe concussion and a lot of bruising.”