Defending Harlow (Mountain Mercenaries #4)(85)

“Trust me,” she told the women.

They smiled.

“And now I really need to get going,” Harlow said apologetically. “When the kids get home, send ’em in. I’ll be ready.”

“Thank you for being so great with them,” Melinda said.

“No need to thank me,” Harlow said honestly. “I’d do anything for those rug rats.” And with that, she headed through the living area and the door that led to the kitchen.

As she prepared the space for the arrival of the kids and built a timetable in her head of what needed to be prepped and when, in order to be ready to serve at six o’clock, Harlow only let her mind wander to Lowell once. She pulled out her cell phone and shot off a quick text.

Harlow: Just wanted you to know how much last night meant to me. Thank you for being you, and not someone you thought I wanted or needed.

It was a ballsy text, and something she’d probably never be able to tell him face to face. Their lovemaking had been perfect. She’d loved being able to be there for him. He’d taken her hard, and she’d adored every second. That wasn’t to say she’d enjoy being taken like that every time, but when it was obvious he was fighting inner demons, it felt good to help him.

His return text was immediate.

Lowell: It was a night I’ll never forget as long as I live. Thank you, baby.

She smiled and put her cell into her pocket, then got back to work.



It was time.

It wasn’t dark outside, but Nolan couldn’t wait any longer. He’d seen a fancy Mercedes park in the lot and a woman wearing a dark-blue suit enter the building. He’d given them ten minutes to get settled, knowing everyone in the place was now sitting in the main area on the first floor. He couldn’t do anything about the damn cameras on the building, but he’d dressed for the occasion.

Pulling the baseball cap he was wearing farther down over his forehead, Nolan took a deep breath. He slipped out the back of the pawnshop and clutched the brick. The bag on his shoulder was heavy, and he could hear the gasoline sloshing as he walked briskly around the back of the buildings. He paused at the end of the street.

The tattoo parlor was still open, but because it was almost dinnertime, it was mostly empty. The pawnshop was closed, and he didn’t see anyone loitering on the street. Holding his breath, he put his head down and started walking briskly toward the shelter.

There was a large window in the front of the building. The curtains were usually drawn shut, but Nolan knew the layout of the shelter because he’d seen the blueprints. Besides, the buildings he owned on either side of it were almost identical.

He held on to the brick tightly and then without pause drew back his arm and threw it through the window.

The glass shattered, and he heard startled screams from inside the room.

Nolan reached into his bag and pulled out the first of his homemade bombs. He lit the cloth with the lighter he had in his other hand and let it fly through the window.

More screams erupted, and he quickly lit the second Molotov cocktail.

“Hey!” he heard from across the street, and, knowing his time was running out, he threw the second bomb through the window, putting more strength into the throw.

Then he spun and ran as fast as he could down the street to his planned getaway route. He had a moped stashed the next block over, but he had to get to it before anyone could catch him. Nolan wasn’t exactly in the best shape. He’d somehow managed to get himself one hell of a beer belly over the years.

He huffed and puffed as he ran and looked back only once. Satisfied to see women streaming out of the building, screaming at the top of their lungs, he disappeared around the corner.

If the fright in their screams was any indication, he’d have a signed contract from Loretta by the end of the day tomorrow.

The building would be his.

The block would be his.

And he’d make money hand over fist.

The end justified the means.

He smiled as he ran.



Black was leaving the gun range for the day . . . finally. He hated interviewing people. He knew it needed to be done, but trying to figure out if someone was being honest and how they’d click with the staff already on hand was draining.

His interrogation experience was helpful, but Black didn’t think the people being interviewed appreciated it. He was a fan of long silences and making people uncomfortable so they’d blurt out honest responses instead of the canned ones they’d memorized.

If he heard one more person tell him their biggest “weakness” was being a “perfectionist,” he was going to puke. Just once he wanted to hear someone be honest and tell him they didn’t like people, or that they couldn’t add two plus two. Neither of those things would necessarily keep him from hiring someone; he’d simply have to make sure they were put in the job appropriate for their skills.

His phone rang, and he saw it was Rex. “Hey,” he said after answering.

“I’ve talked to a few of Nolan Woolf’s competitors, and not one had anything good to say about the man. And I wasn’t getting the vibe that it was simply because he was in the same line of work. They hate him. Said he gives them the creeps. I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Rex said without easing into the conversation.

“Yeah, me either,” Black said. “So where is he?”