the doorway and looked inside Tate’s office.
A woman lay on the floor, stirring as she came-to from being unconscious. Blonde hair hung nearly to her waist. Bridget. Blood trickled from a spot on her temple.
At the desk, a man slammed down on the keyboard, one key at a time. He completely ignored the dog. The animal braced, about to lunge at the man.
“Clarke.” Bridget roared his name. “What are you doing?”
“Something that should’ve been done a long time ago.” The man was muscled under his sweater and jeans. Brow furrowed. His jaw covered with stubble, hair mussed. He’d obviously been having a rough time on the run. After killing Bridget’s father, maybe?
“Whatever it is, you’re not going to finish.” Aiden lifted his gun and stepped in. “Last Chance Police Department. Step away from the computer and put your hands up.”
This had to be the man who’d shot her. The one he’d chased back to his car, a man responsible for Thomas Meyers’s death.
“You’re under arrest.”
“You called the cops!” The man rounded on Bridget. He swung out his foot to kick her in the head.
Bridget shifted as his leg swung out. She grabbed his boot and toppled him to the floor with a grunt. Even as injured as he knew she was, Bridget had considerable strength. Maybe she’d even been trained by someone.
He realized then he knew nothing about her or what her life had been like the last six years. Not that Aiden planned to soften toward her. Or let go of his anger. But he could still have empathy. And curiosity.
Butch ran to Bridget and got between her and the downed man.
Aiden rounded the desk from the other direction, determined to secure this guy before backup arrived. He didn’t need the situation to get more complicated than it already was.
The man was up. He launched toward Aiden and side-stepped the gun to barrel into him in a full-blown tackle.
His back hit the wall. Aiden’s right hip slammed the side of a file cabinet and metal gave way. He grunted, and the man she’d called Clarke reared back to punch him. Aiden slammed the butt of his gun into the man’s left shoulder before he could throw the punch. A sickening crack sounded. The collar bone.
The guy cried out. He swiped with his right hand anyway and punched Aiden’s cheekbone.
Aiden puffed out a breath on impact, dazed and disoriented.
Then he realized he was on his hands and knees.
Before he could scramble up, the man wound up and kicked Aiden’s ribs. The force of it sent him in a roll to his back. He gasped for breath as the suspect ran from the room.
Aiden lay on the floor and Bridget grunted in a way that sounded beyond frustrated. Was that how she dealt with her pain? “Backup is coming.”
She huffed out a breath. “They’ll be too late.”
He blinked in time to see her stumble from the room. Aiden pulled his phone and sent a quick text informing them that the blonde woman in the building was friendly. He prayed the information was relayed fast enough to be helpful to whoever showed up.
A second later, Frees strode in, his gun drawn. “So this is how you relax?”
“Bridget—”
Butch barked. Aiden didn’t bother to yell over the dog who padded to Frees for a pat. As though he’d done something worthy of praise.
Aiden tried to get up. His ribs screamed in his chest, so he grunted and laid back down. It wasn’t like Bridget was in here to see him act helpless.
“You need an ambulance?”
“Nah.” Aiden touched a hand to his chest. “But give me a minute, yeah?”
A second later, there was movement at the door. “He got away.” She sounded strong. Not at all frightened as she had seemed when he’d spotted her outside the hospital. In the daylight, he saw her for how she wanted to be seen.
Down, but not out. She’d been bested, but had fought back.
Aiden rolled so she didn’t see the pain on his face when he pushed up and stood. His head swam.
“You good?”
He turned. “Yep.”
“Good.” Frees stowed his weapon. “Let’s go.” He motioned to Bridget.
“Excuse me?” Her blue eyes widened.
He remembered her eyes as brown. Colored contacts? A woman with training in how to fight. She was nothing like the woman he’d known before Sydney came into his life. “Who are you?”
Her gaze shifted to him. “You’re not okay.”
Before either of them could speak, Butch padded to her. Seemed like the dog thought this was his best