Lady’s voice drops. “That sounds dangerously close to romantic, and you don’t do romance.”
“Don’t tell anybody.”
“I might. For leverage.”
“Of course you would.”
The doors open into the private garage.
The smell hits first. Concrete, oil, heat trapped low beneath luxury. My Harley sits in the guest spot beside a row of polished cars that never see bad neighborhoods unless the driver’s lost. Lady’s SUV is three spaces over, black and clean and too easy to track.
My whole body tightens.
The garage is wrong.
Not obvious. Not enough for a civilian to notice. But wrong.
A maintenance cart sits near the far wall with no worker attached. A black sedan idles by the exit with windows too dark. There’s a white van parked two rows down that wasn’t there when I came in last night.
And then I see it. On Lady’s windshield is a white rose.
Fresh.
Perfect.
Waiting.
I grab her arm and pull her behind me.
This time she doesn’t fight.
“Shady,” she whispers.
“Stay behind me.”
The sedan’s reverse lights flare.
I draw before the first door opens.
Two men get out of the van. One from the passenger side, one sliding from the back. Not civilians. Shoulders too set. Hands too low. No cuts, but that doesn’t mean shit. Men do dirt without patches all the time.
The sedan blocks the exit.
I push Lady backward toward a concrete pillar.
“Get down.”
“I can help.”
“Get down.”
She crouches, finally reading my tone for what it is. Not control. Not ego.
Survival.
The first man lifts his gun.
I fire.