14
Farley, WY
There was a restaurant attached to the hotel, an IHOP knockoff with vinyl booths, silk plants, and a breakfast buffet to die for. That was where Jake went looking for his targets, and that was where he found them.
Before he left base – well, the garage – Ramirez had pulled him aside, hands on her hips, and said, “Why are we dragging our feet? We have the targets in range; let’s close in and make the arrest.”
He’d silently wondered if questioning his authority was a personality trait, or something she’d picked up after she was discharged; a show of frustration much like his own with her situation. Her file indicated that she had no family and had enlisted at her local recruitment center on her eighteenth birthday. She’d poured her life into the Army – and barely escaped with it. Maybe she’d been promised a possible return to active duty and was chomping at the bit just like him.
She hadn’t been touched by Ruby Russell, though; hadn’t felt the physical shove and the tingle of her skin healing.
So he’d frowned at her and said, “These two have evaded eight recovery teams, and killed seventeen men.”
Her brows had shot up.
“We’re going to do this slowly and carefully. I’m off to do recon, and I’ll let the rest of the team know what I find.”
She hadn’t argued after that, and the others had been content to keep playing small town blue collar workers. Now here he stood on the blue rug inside the restaurant, gaze going across the room to the table where Rooster Palmer and Ruby Russell sat eating breakfast.
Jake took a moment, before they noticed him, to study them.
Palmer held himself like a hunted man. Elbows on the table, head low, eyes up, shoveling in food mindlessly; it was fuel for him, something to keep his body going, and nothing he enjoyed. Jake could see the bulge of a gun at his hip, and the shadow of another in the shoulder holster visible under the unzipped halves of his jacket. There was a picture of him in the file back at the garage, a handsome, stern-faced kid in his dress uniform. He’d aged since that photo was taken; nearly died. If his discharge paperwork was to be believed, his doctors hadn’t expected him to ever regain full mobility. And yet Jake had seen him haul the girl out of the restaurant, strong and very much mobile.
Across from him, picking choice bits off plates of sausage, and bacon, and hash browns, and French toast sticks, Ruby looked bright and vibrant as a little twist of flame, her russet hair capturing the light, her sweet face alight with simple happiness.
The made a strange tableau: the hardened warrior and the lively sprite of a girl. Too close in age to be father and daughter, too far apart to be lovers. Brother and sister maybe. Or, the truth: high-level target and self-made bodyguard.
It didn’t matter what they looked like, or why they did so; his job was to bring them in. Jake shook off all other thoughts and approached their table.
Ruby noticed him first. Her hand froze, a long drop of syrup falling off the bit of toast she held, landing on her plate with a quiet plop that seemed deafening in the sudden silence. She didn’t turn toward him. Neither did Palmer; the Marine held perfectly still save his right hand, which moved to his hip, and the gun there.
“If it’s alright,” Jake said carefully, “I was gonna come give you an update on your truck.”
Ruby lowered her toast to the plate, movements slow and measured – save the fast trembling of her pulse in the creamy hollow of her throat.
Palmer turned his head, gave Jake the kind of flat, unreadable look he’d always associated with the Marines; like they were all taking your measure as a man and finding you lacking on all counts. After a long moment, he nodded toward an empty chair, and Jake slid into it as casually as possible. Internally, he wanted to duck for cover and draw his own weapon. But he couldn’t afford any slip-ups now. Not when he was making progress.
“Good morning,” he said to Ruby, sparing her a quick glance. It was polite, for starters, and also because Palmer might appreciate him looking away, showing enough trust to give him an open angle to his throat.
She blinked, startled. “Good morning.”
When he looked back at Palmer, the man was frowning. “What about the truck?”
“Right. Basically, it’s fucked. Spence can rebuild the transmission, but it could take as long as a week. He ordered parts first thing this morning, and they’re on rush, but we’re still looking at at least three days. Probably more.”
Palmer clenched his jaw, lips pressed tight together.
“Did you have any luck with the classifieds?”
He snorted and glanced back at his plate, picked up his fork again. “Nah.”
“Sorry I don’t have better news,” Jake offered.
“That’s alright, it’s not your fault,” Ruby said, giving him a shaky smile. “Thank you for all your help.”
“It’s the least I could do after…” Jake trailed off, opening his hand on the tabletop, showing the unblemished skin on the back of it.
“Oh.” Her cheeks pinked. She was one of those redheads whose blush went all down her throat and disappeared into the collar of her shirt. “Well, I–”
