Expired Getaway (Last Chance County #7) - Lisa Phillips Page 0,1
his temple. “Bridget. Hey.”
“What is going on?” She strode over and held out her free hand. He’d killed those two men. “You good?”
Clarke clasped her wrist way too tight and nearly pulled her over as he stood. Once at his full height, he barely matched hers despite the fact she was wearing sneakers and not heels. She had at least two inches on him. Clarke flung his arms around her and squeezed, her arms—and the gun—smashed between them.
“Oof.” Pain sliced through her middle—a bruised rib from yesterday. “Let go, Clarke.”
He didn’t. “I’m so glad you’re here. I knew I’d have to take them out, but the element of surprise…” He squeezed once more and leaned back. “Works every time.”
Bridget extricated herself from his arms. “So it was just the two of them?”
She moved to the closest one and took a look. Could be Capeira’s goons, but she’d left Caracas two days ago. Had they really caught up to her this fast? There was no way they could’ve found the accountant’s office that quickly.
“You see them,” Clarke said. “There are two.”
As though she couldn’t do simple math, or needed what she’d seen with her own eyes explained to her. Bridget might not have been a particularly stellar student in high school, but she had skills. And a brain.
She tried to figure out what was up with him. “What did they say to you?”
“They wanted access to the computer systems. Of course, I would die before I ever gave them that.”
The back door had been busted in to grant these men entry. He’d probably been taken by surprise. Hit over the head and disoriented before they demanded what they wanted. No one who worked here would ever give armed intruders anything. Except for a bullet.
She was just glad it had been Clarke and not her. She knew how to use her weapon, but only did so when it was a matter of life or death. Sneaking up on two men whose intentions she didn’t know? That wasn’t honorable.
Plus…she’d already killed someone this week.
Bridget walked to the second man he’d shot. A gun lay close to his hand, fallen from his fingertips. He had a scar just below the base of his thumb. It had been carved there. “These guys are both underlings.”
She straightened in time to catch Clarke eyeing the discarded weapon. “There should be a driver or a lieutenant with them.”
No way would someone who knew what this place was actually trust a mission like this to two guys who hung on the bottom rungs of the ladder.
Bridget started to turn. Clarke was far too close to her.
He touched her shoulders, but the weight of his arms proved too heavy for it to be considered sweet or comfortable. “I’m so glad you’re here.” He shifted his body closer, but it wasn’t comforting.
It was a threat.
“You probably saved my life.” He let out a depreciating laugh. “If I was willing to admit it.”
“You just did, but all I did was distract them.” She tried to step back, but he didn’t let go.
Clarke’s gaze shifted over her shoulder. Holding her still.
Someone else was here.
Bridget held back the reaction that wanted out. She still had her gun. She could shoot Clarke right now. Instead, she brought her knee up between his. High enough to make contact, but still like she hadn’t noticed it wasn’t just the two of them here.
He doubled over.
“Clarke, you let a woman go when it’s clear she wants to be free.” It was a good point to make, but it became really clear really fast that it wasn’t the point she should have focused on when a fist smashed into her cheekbone as soon as she spun around. A flash of pain doubled her over. Bridget blinked and stumbled back from yet another suited man.
Ouch.
He pried the gun from her fingers. She tried to grasp it, but by that time Clarke had recovered. He twisted her fingers almost to breaking point. She cried out. With her free hand, Bridget punched him in the stomach as hard as she could.
“Quit messing around and get her secured.” Another heavily-accented voice.
Clarke pulled her hands behind her back. “I told you she would come here.”
“Mmm.”
Bridget struggled, fighting against the man until she found herself staring down the barrel of a Glock, pointed right at her. Beyond it stood a man whose brother she had shot two days ago. She gritted her teeth. Was he here for revenge?
“Your brother nearly shot me.” He’d also compromised