She strode toward the door, knowing full well he wouldn’t let her have the last word.
Sure enough, his footfalls followed. Her muscles tightened, and she adjusted her grip on her heels, holding one in each hand.
As she reached the door, his palm slammed against it above her head, preventing her from opening it. Out of the corner of her eye, his cigarette skipped into the desert.
Over the past few months, her position on this team had been challenged repeatedly. Some of the men didn’t like taking orders from a woman. A few thought because they were bigger than her or because she dressed the way she did that it was an invitation to take whatever they wanted.
They all tried. And failed.
She’d been waiting for Alec to make a move. Of course, just like the others, he chose to jump her when she was alone.
Fucking pussy.
“I have something useful to offer.” He pressed his weight against her back and ground his hips. “Lift that dress, and I’ll show you.”
“Oh, yeah?” She turned her face toward him, resting her chin on her shoulder.
As if caught by an invisible string, his lips crept toward hers, closer, closer, close enough.
She bent her knees and dropped just enough to twist around and hook the heel of her shoe into the corner of his mouth. He yelped, ensnared, as she used the three-inch spike to wrench his head toward the ground.
His hands grappled to dislodge the shoe. But she had control of his head, and where the head went, the body followed. The technique forced him into a large step, opening up an easy takedown. Wobbly balance, a slight turn in his spine, and just like that, his mobility was fucked.
In the next breath, she had him in the sand, his mouth fish-hooked by one heel, and the other pressed into the inner corner of his bulging eye.
“I’m a twitch away,” she said in a bored tone, “from slamming this into your tiny brain. Give me a reason, Alec.”
His throat jogged with a hard swallow, his mouth gaping like a dying fish on a hook.
“Your job is to follow orders. My orders and Vincent’s.” She batted her eyelashes. “That’s not so hard, is it?”
He tried to shake his head.
“Just so we’re clear.” She put her face in his, adding slight pressure on the spike against his eye. “Don’t ever touch me again.”
A sound of agreement coughed from the back of his mouth.
Good enough.
She rose to her feet and brushed off her dress. Without sparing him a glance, she entered the building, confident he wouldn’t follow.
He didn’t.
The next day, Cole received the usual ration of hot dogs, two fresh buckets, and some things he didn’t expect. With a menacing scowl, the guard tossed in a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a box of medical supplies. None of it would help him escape, but it revealed a great deal about his captors.
One in particular.
Sitting naked in the dark with thrash metal music banging against his skull, he brushed his teeth, blindly patched up his hand, and thought about Lydia.
She wasn’t who she pretended to be. She’d said as much during their conversation, but it was what she didn’t say that gave her away.
During the few hours he’d spent with her yesterday, he’d put together a rudimentary profile on her. But he needed more time, a few more interactions to formulate a comprehensive outline of her identity, her mental and moral qualities, and most importantly, her motivation.
Once he understood her stakes, he could manipulate her from that angle.
She appeared to be the one in charge here, but this job was only one piece of a bigger operation. An operation that was controlled and funded by someone else. He’d figured out that much when he asked her about Thurney Bridge. She didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.
That meant someone else had hired the hitman who attacked Rylee. Someone else was responsible for killing Rylee’s neighbor and two motel clerks. Lydia hadn’t been involved.
He shouldn’t have felt so relieved, but dammit, he couldn’t ignore the lightness in his chest. The hope. Irrational fucking hope that Lydia was more than just a criminal for hire, that maybe she had a forgivable reason for threatening his friends with a hellfire missile.
Dangerous thoughts.
He couldn’t get attached. His only priority was survival, and if it came down to it, he would choose his life over hers.
He would choose Danni’s life over everyone and everything.
They knew where she lived. But he couldn’t dwell on that. He trusted Trace to protect her. There was no one on the planet who would keep her safer than her husband.
Resting his head against the wall, he drummed his fingers on the box of supplies. Lydia had given into his demand for a toothbrush, and the guards weren’t happy about it. She hadn’t stabbed needles under his fingernails or waterboarded him to death, and the guards didn’t appear to be happy about that, either.