Mine to Keep (Mine #2)(28)

Trace helped her to slide out, and he followed right behind her. As soon as they were clear of the wreckage, he grabbed Matt. His fingers fisted on the man’s jacket. “What the f*ck just happened?”

“Please, it’s not my fault! I-I waited for the light to change, but the other car came out of n-nowhere!”

Trace’s head turned to study the scene. They were in the middle of an intersection. It was close to midnight, and the dark road was eerily silent. Glass littered the ground. Chunks of metal from the crash were scattered across the street.

A blue BMW had smashed right into the side of the limo. The driver’s side door hung open, swaying slightly.

“Where’s the driver?” Skye asked.

“H-he ran off,” Matt said. “I called out for him to stop, but he kept going.”

A siren echoed in the distance. Trace shoved Matt away from him.

“He must’ve been drunk,” Matt told them. “He ran cause…cause he knew the cops would realize it, right? They’d be able to tell that he’d been drinking.”

Fury tightened Trace’s body.

Another car braked near the scene. A man poked his head out. “Dear God, is everyone all right?”

Trace stared at the wreckage. A hit and run. A drunk driver?

“Trace…” Skye’s hand wrapped around his shoulder. “You lied to me.”

He flinched. “Skye, I—”

She wiped the blood from his face. “You are hurt. You need stitches.”

“It could’ve been worse,” he told her, and the words were true. So terrifyingly true. Because what if she’d been hurt?

The siren was coming closer. Someone, somewhere had called for help. Maybe one of the folks in the apartments down the road. Lights gleamed from those buildings.

Or maybe the call had even come from the SOB who’d hit them and fled.

His gaze tracked around the scene. Lifted. He stared at the red lights.

And at the cameras mounted near them.

A grim smile curved Trace’s lips.

I’ll find you, *.

Because no one hurt him and just walked away.

***

“What the hell happened to you?” Noah demanded as he stepped into Trace’s office. Then his lips twisted. “Wait, let me guess, a fight with the little ballerina?”

Trace glared at him. He’d gotten the stitches only because Skye insisted. The cut was high on his forehead, deep and, yeah, he knew it would scar. He didn’t care.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to push away the tension he felt, and said, “On the way home last night, some * drove right into the side of my limo.”

That wiped the grin right off Noah’s face. “You’re not kidding.”

When had he ever?

Trace motioned to the empty chair near his desk. “He left the scene, ran away on foot.” But the guy wasn’t escaping. Trace had already pulled some strings, and he’d be getting that video footage from the crash scene any minute. He’d see the man who’d walked—ran—away.

“You think it’s related to Sharpe’s death?” Now Noah’s voice was cautious.

Exhaling slowly, Trace decided to put all of his cards on the table. “I don’t know what the hell to think of Sharpe’s case. I got the autopsy report.” He nodded toward the manila file that sat on the corner of his desk. Getting a copy of that report had been easy enough. Just a matter of pulling more strings. “It wasn’t a robbery. Sharpe was homeless. He had nothing to take.”

Noah grabbed the file. His fingers flipped through the pages. “A knife thrust straight to the heart…and a slice right across his jugular.”

Trace nodded. “There were no signs that Sharpe even had the chance to fight back.” That worried him. “Sharpe was crazy, but he was a fighter. He wouldn’t just stand there and let some SOB kill him.” And, shit, he’d been the one to send Ben away from the penthouse—without weapons. Yet even without his knives, Ben knew a dozen ways to defend against an attack. Provided, of course, that he’d had the chance to use his skills.

Noah glanced up. “He didn’t have the time to fight, that’s what you’re thinking.”

“You could get the drop on someone like that,” Trace pointed out. “You could get close enough to kill without making a sound. By the time the victim realized it, the knife would be in his heart.” Because it was true. Noah might pretend to be the elegant businessman, but that fa?ade was a lie.

It was the same lie that Trace presented to the world.

“And so could you,” Noah retorted, voice hardening. “We had the same training. Same missions.”

Trace tapped his fingers on the desk. “I didn’t kill him.”

Noah shrugged. “Neither did I. So we just need to figure out who the hell did.”

“Sharpe said the past was coming back.” This was the part that Trace needed to reveal. “That Skye was going to be my destruction.”

Now Noah’s face showed his concern. “A woman nearly destroyed us before.”

An innocent face…to hide deadly intentions. “They both died.”

They…

The woman who’d tried to betray his team. And her lover.

“It sure as hell seemed like they did,” Noah agreed as he tossed the folder aside.