The old man opens his mouth to speak, to protest, but starts coughing instead.
Shit.
“Thanks,” the woman says quietly, laying a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “We could actually use something like that. The storm’s worse than we thought.”
“Is he your father?” I ask, nodding their way.
Sadness fills her eyes as she nods back slowly.
She’s still looking at her old man, not me. This deep, sudden sadness wells up and douses my heart. Something about the unconditional love that never fails between a parent and their kid, despite it all, maybe.
“Want to tell me why that charming gent I escorted out of here is so interested in following you?” I ask.
Her eyes widen. She shakes her head. “Listen. I really appreciate what you did, stepping in, but—”
“Ridge.”
The harsh urgency in Tobin’s whisper has me turning around and moving back to where he’s standing by the bar.
My lip curls. I glance out the window and see a shadow stalking around in the snow. Undoubtedly the goon near the horse trailer.
Apparently, the jackass hasn’t had enough yet.
“Give me that knife,” I tell Tobin.
“You’re drunk, Ridge. Handing you a combat knife while you’re intoxicated hardly seems like it’d help de-escalate the situation.”
“De-escalate,” I grunt. “Is that what we’re here to do? I’m not the asshole hunting those folks.”
“You shouldn’t be involved,” Tobin says, his eyes pleading behind his owlish spectacles, the loyal wingman—or babysitter—until the end. “If we can guide them to the motel in town, however, I’ll do the driving.”
I toss him a look that says it’s already too late not to get involved in this, and hold out my hand. “Tobin. Knife now.”
With a guttural sigh, he passes me the dagger.
“For the love of God, don’t do anything rash. We don’t have the kind of legal support here we did in California.”
“I know,” I say quietly, then turn and stalk toward the front, giving Grady a look along the way that says I’ve got this.
I also know there’s nothing in the world that’s going to stop me from running off the twit with the devil ink who doesn’t know when to quit.
Pushing open the door, I find him waiting, just a few feet outside.
“Yo! You really are dumb as a rock, aren’t you?” I’ve stopped next to his SUV, waiting for him to look at me.
When I finally catch his eyes, I sink the knife down in the front tire on the driver’s side.
“Hey!” he shouts, charging toward me.
The fact that his ride’s still running means there’s a good chance it’s unlocked.
Yep. I open the truck’s door and hit the lock button, then slam the door shut, making sure to ram the knife in the back tire before he arrives. A satisfying rush of air hisses out.
“What the fuck!” he roars, diving for me across the last few paces.
It’s hilarious how easy it is to smack him in the throat with my forearm and catch him behind the ankles with one good kick.
As he goes down, I pull the knife out of the tire, then dash around the vehicle and blow two more tires on the other side.
He’s up and coming at me again, shouting a blue streak.
Twisting so his blow hits my shoulder, I get a good hold of his neck, digging in my fingers.
He fights it by tightening his muscles.
No dice.
I’m already bored with this, so I dig my fingertips in deep and then pivot the tip of the knife against the other side of his neck. He freezes up a second later, realizing his predicament.
“Now, slow poke, be a friend and show me where the tracking device is on that vehicle.” My eyes flick to the horse trailer belonging to the folks inside.
He starts to blabber, no doubt winding up his lies. But between the nerve torture and pushing the tip of the knife harder against his skin, he goes quiet.
“Let’s go.” Snarling, I shove him at the old Ford and the horse trailer.
He tries to resist, but my adrenaline makes me a little crazy, giving me a high like I haven’t had in a long time.
It isn’t even a question.
I win.
A few hurried minutes later, I count no less than three tracking devices in the snow by my feet. He’s shivering from digging through the caked snow to remove them from the vehicle. Poor bastard should’ve remembered gloves.
“Hurry up already, and that better be all of them,” I tell him. “If I find one more you missed, you’re dead.”
He sputters but has just enough sense to bite his tongue.
I get it, really.
Dickless hates losing. Most people do. Particularly when they’re used to throwing their weight around against targets who can’t fight back.
I think his face is redder from hot anger than it is from the blistering cold.
“You…you wouldn’t dare,” he chokes out.
“Try me, my man. I don’t make threats I can’t carry out,” I say, pushing my face close to those ugly-ass tattoos. Whoever did him up also did a hack job.