Fast Burn (Body Armor #4)(92)
All hell broke loose—again.
Olsen withdrew a gun but Ross launched away from Andy and tackled him.
Leese muttered, “He’s doing all our work for us.”
After tucking Sahara down again, Brand said, “Your brother is okay.”
It felt like the weight of the world lifted off her. Leave it to Brand to know exactly what to say. “Thank you.”
Miles stepped through the door. “I suppose since no one else has tried to run out, all the action is in here?”
Leese looked to Sahara. “This is all of them?”
“Yes.” Now that each of her men had joined her, she asked, “Where’s my brother?”
“Out front,” Miles said dismissively. “He was keeping watch with me—”
Which she took to mean that they didn’t trust him, and Miles had ensured he didn’t disappear again.
“—but now he’s calling the police.”
Was he too injured to join them? “He really is okay?”
Brand closely watched the fight between Ross and Olsen. “The bullet only grazed his arm. He hit his head when he fell, but he’s fine.” With that said, he stepped around the pew. “Stay down.”
She nodded. “Okay.” Looking over the edge of the pew, she watched Brand approach the brawl. He appeared far too serious and somewhat...wounded. There was a pinched look to his eyes and a tightness around his mouth.
She glanced at Leese.
He took his eyes off the melee long enough to wink at her.
They both turned back to see the action.
Wrestling Olsen flat to his back, Ross shouted, “Stop fighting, damn it.” He pressed a forearm across Olsen’s throat. “It’s over. Let it go.”
Olsen obligingly went limp, allowing Ross to wrest the gun from his hand.
“Andy was right,” he said with bitter resentment around his great gulps of air. “You fucked us, didn’t you?”
“Actually, he’s in it as deep as you are.” Brand snatched the gun out of Ross’s hand and tossed it to Miles, who’d been about to help Justice get his foot out of the floor. “Maybe deeper.”
Ross groaned. As he turned, he said, “I don’t suppose you’d—”
Brand hit him hard enough to send him sprawling over Olsen again. Both men grunted.
Legs braced apart, shoulders bunched and fists clenched, Brand said, “Get up.”
Ross looked past him to Sahara.
She laughed. “Don’t look at me, you cretin. You brought this on yourself.”
“I tried to help you!”
“After you made me take off my skirt.”
Groaning, he shifted his wary gaze to Brand. “It wasn’t like that, man. I wanted them to believe I was still on board with their idiot plans so I could—”
Brand hauled him up, which given Ross’s size was no easy feat, and threw another punch.
Ross blocked it and took a swing of his own.
Big miscalculation, Sahara thought, when Brand took the blow, grinned and then landed several of his own against Ross, first hitting his face, then his gut, then his face again, ending with a kick to the sternum that sent him sprawling once more, this time to the hard, dirty floor.
With a sigh, she stood upright. “That’s enough.”
“I’m just getting started,” Brand said.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do that.” Holding tight to the blanket, she stepped around the pew and headed for Brand. “Not only will you destroy the rickety floor, but what Ross said is true. He protected me tonight.”
“Tonight, but that doesn’t explain—”
“He didn’t know anything about them ramming us on the road, or this cockeyed kidnapping plan tonight,” she explained. “If Olsen hadn’t called him, he wouldn’t even be here.”
Sluggishly, Ross sat up. “A little late, honey.”
Going tense all over again, Brand took a step forward.
Sahara grabbed his arm. “Brand, no.” Then to Ross, she blasted, “Imbecile! Don’t you know when to keep quiet?”
He touched his swollen mouth. “I’ll start now.”
Scott came through the door, one arm bandaged, a hand on the back of his head. “Too late. The cops are here and they’re going to be real interested in everything you have to say.”
Ross looked at him. “You and I have some private talking to do?”
Scott gave a mean smile. “I’m counting on it, you bastard.”
“Me?” Ross pointed at Brand. “He’s the one who was cozying up with Chelsea Tuttle.”
Brand locked his jaw. “I wasn’t, but what does that twit have to do with anything?”
Bemused, Scott said, “She’s the one who hired out my murder.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SAHARA COULDN’T REMEMBER ever being so tired. After a lot of talking to the police, and then a visit to the hospital, the night had dragged on into dawn before they finally headed home.
At the emergency room, a physician checked her, Scott and Brand, but no one was seriously hurt. Scott’s arm was cleaned and more properly bandaged. Luckily, neither Brand nor Scott had a concussion, but given their scowls, they both had killer headaches.