“Whoa,” Ian told Hank. “Don’t go there.”
“Don’t tell me how to talk to my wife.”
“Ex-wife,” he corrected.
Hank’s frustration transitioned into arrogance, his grin all-knowing and condescending. “You two going to Smoke, huh?” His gaze jumped back to Savannah and hardened. “We used to go there all the time, didn’t we, sugar?”
“Don’t, Hank—” she started.
“But that’s way out of bounds now, and you know it.” He stepped back, one hand on his duty belt, one on the butt of his weapon. “Out of the car, Heller.”
“Hank, stop—”
“Step. Out.” Hank demanded, cutting off Savannah’s warning.
Common sense told Ian to turn on the humility and let this asshole think he’d intimidated him. And while that might be the best thing for the mission, it would go against all his beliefs, all his values, all his training.
Military Manhunters didn’t back down. Period.
But he was a civilian Manhunter now. He should be evaluating every shade of gray between black and white.
He reached for the door handle.
Savannah slapped a hand to Ian’s arm. “No,” she told him, then looked at Hank. “We’re going home.”
“Not until Heller and I have a little come-to-Jesus meeting,” Hank said. “Get out of the car, or I’ll drag you out.”
“Chill, man.” Ian pulled on the door handle. “I’m getting out.”
“No.” Savannah’s nails dug into Ian’s forearm. Her eyes were wide and terrified. She looked past Ian to plead with her ex-husband. “Leave him out of this, Hank.”
“Too late for that, isn’t it?”
Ian closed his free hand around Savannah’s wrist and pulled her hand away, meeting her eyes. “I’ll be fine.” He lowered his voice. “Stay here.”
“He’s…” she whispered.
“I know,” he assured her. “Believe me, I know.”
Ian stood from the truck. The icy air sliced through his jacket.
The driver’s door hadn’t even closed behind Ian when Bishop threw the first punch. Ian had seen it coming, could have avoided it, but he forced himself not to react.
The bastard’s fist smashed against his cheek. Pain cut through the left side of his face, but in all honesty, it was hardly anything to write home about. The guy didn’t have the strength or technique to do much damage.
Savannah’s scream sounded muffled amid the low thrum of blood in Ian’s ears.
He easily remained on his feet, but fake-stumbled a couple of feet away to put a little distance between them.
“You must not be using your dash camera tonight.” Straightening, he wiped the back of his hand over the corner of his mouth and chuckled. “Bullies always operate in the dark.”
Fury replaced the smug look on Bishop’s face. He hauled his arm back for another punch. Ian ducked, spun, and stepped back. Hank’s momentum turned him in an arc, and he fell against the truck’s fender.
Ian’s blood gushed hot. His reflexes tingled to life, but inner conflict raged between could and should. He put his hands up, palms out. “Man, let’s talk this out. It really doesn’t have to be—”
Bishop came at him again, and this time his reflexes overrode the shoulds in his head. He leaned away, dodging Bishop’s fist and planting his own in Bishop’s gut. He added an uppercut to Bishop’s jaw, snapping the man’s head back,
then retreated to a safe distance.