Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors 7)

Voices fading with footsteps, J.T. shook his hands free of the loosely wrapped cord. He crouched low, peering through the thin gap between the hinges of the open door.

Haugen stood in the kitchen archway with Rena at his side. He jammed his gun deeper in her side.

J.T.'s hands fisted. He channeled the rage, training never more important than now.

Instincts. Breathe. Assess.

Rena asked Haugen some question that left the man furrowing his forehead in concentration. Good job, babe.

Sliding into the hall, J.T. kept his observation peripheral now. No looking at the bastard and setting off the internal radar that might cause him to check his six o'clock.

Haugen chuckled. "So you recognize my belt buckle, Mrs. Price. Not many would. Maybe it was a little egotistical of me to place it on my calling card through your window, but I figured your son would make the connection with Miranda's necklace."

J.T. processed the periphery view. Rena and Haugen in the doorway. Chris by the table. Bo, to Rena's right, by the refrigerator. Moving infinitesimally. Trying to work a rescue solo? Or had he seen J.T.? And what about Chris?

Come on, somebody. Get back to distracting Haugen. J.T. wound his way through the hall, grateful for the clutter and oversize plants that provided a helluva lot more cover than desert. This was his turf, damn it.

Chris backed until his butt bumped the counter. "You've been running drugs? And now you're going off with Miranda Casale?"

"Miranda?" Haugen's face whipped up, his body moving forward, deeper into the kitchen—way to go, Chris. "God, no. Aside from the fact that she's the don's niece, I love my wife. Why would I screw around with Miranda Casale? Besides, she's too young and too obvious. She was sent down to keep an eye on her uncle's interests."

Rena leaned on her right foot, the gun barrel inching out of her side. "If you love your wife, how could you leave her like this?"

Damn straight, Rena. Good men don't leave their women behind. He heard the message loud and clear, and wouldn't be repeating his mistake.

"I'm taking my wife and daughter with me."

Bo stepped closer. "Your wife's a part of this, too?"

J.T. flattened his back to the wall. Angled around a picture frame. Only five more steps and he would be hidden on the side of the archway. Out of Haugen's sight line.

"Of course not." Haugen looked past Rena to Bo, the man's gestures growing more erratic as Rena, Chris and Bo had him ping-ponging responses around the room. "They think it's a family vacation. No need to worry them. I'll explain things when we get … where we're going. They'll realize I did this for them, to give them the things they deserve. I'd do anything for them."

Two more steps. Past a plant stand.

Bo inched closer. "Even sell drugs and pump money into terrorist accounts?"

"If I don't do it—" Haugen shrugged, his gun pulling out of Rena's side, but his grip on her arm still tight enough to dig into her flesh "—they'll only find someone else."

Bo's chest expanded with outrage, bravado, as he strutted closer, an arm's reach from Rena. "That's a bullshit excuse to justify your own greed and you know it."

In place, J.T. nodded to Bo. Knew the young officer caught the movement even though he was smart enough not to alert Haugen by looking away.

"Are you an idiot or what to tick me off this way?" Haugen advanced around Rena.

No, Bo wasn't an idiot. But Haugen was. This time, the enemy was going down.

Bo sprung toward Rena. Body blocked her out of the line of fire. J.T. launched through the cleared archway, tackled Haugen. They hit the tile. Hard. Teeth jarring as they skidded across the kitchen, bashing into chairs, the table. He pinned Haugen's gun hand to the floor.

Rena? He wanted to check. Didn't dare lose focus.

Haugen arched, swung his other fist. J.T. blocked. Slammed Haugen's hand against the saltillo tile floor, once, again and again until the gun clanked free.

J.T. channeled the roar, instincts honed and focused. This was home turf and damn anyone who threatened what was his.

Haugen panicked, bucked, tried to twist.

J.T. coldcocked the son of a bitch with an uppercut to the jaw. Haugen's head smacked tile, lolled to the side. Chris scooped up the gun, his too-long legs and awkward teen body never exhibiting more speed and grace.