Tate (Mountain Men 3)

She nods without a smart mouth for once. Good. Maybe she’s learning.

Probably not.

“So I can’t slap his face for you? Pity,” she says with a frown, her eyes alight.

“Maybe if you’re a good girl.”

She wiggles her eyebrows at me. “I do believe I love you, Tate Cowen.”

My chest warms and I give her a teasing wink as I open the door.

There’s no doubt in my mind I love her, but I won’t declare it for the first time at the threshold of a damn pub. She deserves more than that.

It’s dark and dank in here when we enter, dim light from yellowed bulbs at the bar and by the pool tables, but not much else. I quickly survey the premises. Exit to the right, under a gleaming fluorescent sign, likely takes us to an alley or dumpster. Handful of blokes playing pool, one lassie on a lad’s lap to the far left, too preoccupied with what they’re doing to worry about me. Bartender a sturdy but older chap.

And fucking Fergus, sitting to the right, a pint nestled in his hands. Hands that touched my woman. I want to break Every. Damn. Finger.

He doesn’t look up as we approach him. Discreetly, I roll up my tee, and the bartender’s brows shoot up a fraction of a centimeter. He eyes me, gives a wee nod, then jerks his head to the exit. He wants us to take this outside if we need to. I nod back.

I take the seat beside Fergus and tug Fran onto my lap.

I’m not here to play games.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” the arsehole mutters. “Knew she’d end up spreading her legs for you.”

“Nice to see you too, Fergus,” I say, as Fran seethes beside me.

“Least he has something to bloody spread for,” she mutters. I give her a quick pinch to the thigh to warn her to be quiet.

He reaches his hand to her, but I stop him mid-stretch, my fingers on his wrist. Is he serious? “Touch her and I fuckin’ slit your throat. Right here. Right now.”

I mentally reach for the blade and imagine exactly how I’d do it.

We’d lose an informant, and it’d be bloody messy to clean up before our flight, but it’d be worth it.

A beat of silence.

“What do you want, Cowen?”

“What did you take from her?”

“Didn’t take bloody anything.”

“Who did you contact?”

“No one.”

“So we’re gonna do this the hard way.”

“You come in here showing off my ex-whore, and you think I’ll just give you what you want that easily?” He laughs, picking up his pint again.

I’ll break his jaw, just for the whore comment. I’m taking a mental tally of which body parts I’ll enjoy breaking first, breathing in through my nose to steady my temper.

So gently it’s almost casual, I pick Fran off my lap and place her to the left. In one swift movement, my Glock’s to his belly, my mouth at his ear.

“Exit. Right. Now.”

“Jesus—”

The bartender plunks two meaty fists on the bar in front of us. “You’d do well to do what he bloody says.”

Good bloke. We’ll pay him well for this.

“You too?”

“Now.”

Scowling, he gets up, real fear in his eyes as he steps away from the bar. Good. He bloody well deserves it.

I watch the whole time. I don’t trust him not to pull something stupid, but we make it to the exit without an issue. He turns to me just as he steps over the threshold, and in one swift move I grab the back of his neck and shove him forward.

Fran follows behind.

Dusk’s fallen as we step outside, chill night air cloaking us in darkness, one streetlamp fitfully swinging ahead of us.

I shove him and he stumbles, but he quickly rights himself. I slam the door behind us.

“Fran, go left.” I point to a stack of empty crates. I want her in my vision the entire time. She begins to follow my instruction, catches her toe on thin air, and nearly trips. Instinctively, I turn to her, and it’s all he needs to make his move.

The arsehole’s smarter than I give him credit for. He doesn’t go for me. He goes for her. In seconds he’s got her in his grip, holding her by the hair. Just as quickly, I kick my leg out and knock his hand off her. He screams, grabbing at his arm, but before he can even gather another breath, I kick him again. Kickboxing’s my strong suit, and I’ve never wanted to incapacitate someone so much in my life.

She falls to the ground but keeps her head about her, quickly rolling to the side and out of our way. And Fergus, the fucking bastard, takes one look at me and tries to turn to run.

Too late.

I’ve got him on the ground, his nose broken and mouth bloodied before I even know what I’m doing. “Fucking Fran, it’s always her fault,” he says, bloodied spittle forming on his lips. “She’s a fucking liar.”