Bare It All (27 page)

They spoke quietly to each other. One guy put in a quick cell
phone call, nodded, and together they went inside.

In a nanosecond, Reese made the decision to follow. He felt it
all going to hell, sensed an implosion about to occur. No way would he wait in
the car when Peterson and Rowdy were likely sitting ducks.

Thank God, Logan is with Alice.
If
anything went wrong here, he knew she’d be okay. Logan would see to it. And with
that knowledge, he managed to shove her from his mind so he could handle the
situation as needed.

With professionalism, a cool head and deadly accuracy—in a
freakin’ ball cap and printed T-shirt.

As he left the car, Reese tugged at his loose T-shirt, peeling
it away from his damp back to ensure it kept his Glock covered. He repositioned
his cap, taking it off to let air reach his head, then settling it on again.
Anxiety ramping up with every beat of his heart, he strode toward the tattoo
parlor.

Killer Designz had a massive front window, so even while still
a dozen feet away, he spotted Peterson—he would never get used to seeing her
dressed like that—talking to presumably a tattoo artist. She stood with her hip
cocked out, an “I’m up for grabs” smile on her painted mouth, and her hands on a
counter so she could lean forward, which effectively kept the artist’s attention
glued to her rack.

Rowdy stood a few feet behind her, glancing through a book of
designs. The two hoods were off to the side, pretending to peruse the body
jewelry in a glass-enclosed case.

Like either of those goons had piercings.

A little bell jangled when Reese walked in. Cool
air-conditioning washed over his heated skin. Rowdy glanced up and away, doing a
good job of dismissing him. Peterson stalled a second but not for long. Her gaze
moved to the two thugs and then away again.

Was that to let Reese know she was already aware of them?
Maybe.

“Well,” she said, her voice somehow throaty, “you’re getting
busy, and I don’t want to hold you up.”

The thugs, it seemed, were more concerned with Rowdy than
Peterson, which made sense. Rowdy stood six-four, only a few inches shorter than
Reese, with a fit physique that promised capability. In comparison, the
Lieutenant was a diminutive little lady, and in that getup, she looked more like
fluff than a ball-busting, high-ranking cop who’d damn near single-handedly
cleaned up a very corrupt department with cold-blooded determination.

Shit.
“Hey,” Reese said. “You the
only one working?”

The artist nodded at him. “I’ll be right with you.”

“Great.” Hooking his sunglasses to the front of his T-shirt,
Reese did his own perusing. That gave him an opportunity to surreptitiously
scope out the interior in case they had to make a hasty getaway.

The lieutenant put a finger to her lips. “I like all of these,”
she said of the designs shown in a free-standing swing panel display. “But I saw
a really unique pattern the other day, and I think I want something like
that.”

The artist watched her finger on her mouth as she dragged it
back and forth over her bottom lip. “Can you describe it to me?”

“Sure. It was sort of long and narrow, with lines and
numbers.”

“Numbers?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She rested her arm on the counter—which dipped her
forward even farther until Reese feared she’d fall right out of the dubious
constraint of that sheer blouse.

He stopped staring only long enough to realize that Rowdy and
the two goons were also paying very close attention to the straining buttons on
her blouse.

“Like this,” she said, and she used her damp fingertip to draw
the size of the tattoo on her arm. She looked up with a slow smile. “Got
anything like that?”

The guy concentrated on breathing for a few seconds. “Yeah, I
think I might.” Something glittered in his eyes. Lust, yes, but more than that?
“Hang on a sec while I go get a different pattern book.”

Was he onto her?

Staying loose, his ankles crossed, Reese leaned back on the
counter as he flipped through a catalogue.

The artist turned and went through a curtain to a backroom.

Rowdy looked up at her. “Where you getting your tat, honey?” He
used the excuse of a conversation to move closer to her—something Peterson
didn’t appreciate, given how she took a step away.

Heat flushed her cheeks, and damn if that didn’t look
genuine.

“I haven’t decided,” Peterson said. “Probably on my arm, but
I’m thinking it might look great climbing the back of my leg, too.” She turned,
presenting that snug little ass to Rowdy and the two hired hands. She tipped her
hip out again and looked over her shoulder with a smile. “What do you
think?”

“I think you shouldn’t mess with perfection.”

Peterson did a slow bat of her eyelashes, and that was so
disturbing, Reese almost missed hearing the lock on the front door click into
place. He turned fast and saw that one of the men now barred the door. The other
man, mouth twisted in a sick smile of anticipation, pulled out a Desert Eagle
.50 cal with a long black suppressor attached.

Reese didn’t wait for questions, for a better opportunity, or
to see what Rowdy and Peterson would do. He thought only of controlling that
deadly weapon.

Full force, he launched his considerable size and weight at the
armed man. The complete lack of hesitation took the goon by surprise. Reese
topped him by several inches and probably forty pounds, so the impact of his
assault crashed them to the ground hard. As they fell, Reese heard a near-silent
pop, pop
and the shattering of glass.

He trusted Rowdy and Peterson to handle the other one, not that
he had much of a choice.

While holding on to his wrist so that the bastard couldn’t lift
the gun, Reese deliberately thunked the man’s head to the floor, then landed an
elbow to his face. That slackened the guy’s grip, and Reese wrested the gun from
his hand.

“You’re a dead man,” the idiot snarled, renewing his effort to
get the upper hand.

Reese used the gun to slug him hard in the jaw.

The man went limp at the same time something crashed behind
him.

Twisting, Reese looked over his shoulder—and Peterson was all
but naked!

Somehow, while he’d had his back turned, her blouse had gotten
ripped, and yes, those were pale, full breasts spilling out all right. Jacking
up her skirt, she produced her own weapon—a small handgun she’d strapped to her
thigh—and pointed it at the man Rowdy had in a chokehold.

Belatedly, Reese found the wherewithal to follow her gaze, but
Rowdy tightened his hold and the second man went to sleep, making Peterson’s
effort unnecessary.

They’d taken charge of the deadly situation with little
fuss.

Neat, tidy, easy...

Until rapid-fire gunshots shattered the front window and pelted
the walls and counter.

“Shit!” With alacrity, Rowdy released his man and dove for the
front counter. His boots crunched over the sharp broken glass of a display case
and the scattered, more gravelly glass of the big picture window.

Hunkered down in her high heels, her skirt still up and her
blouse still open, Peterson scuttled ahead of him.

They both made it behind the dubious safety of the counter.

More shots zipped into the room, each one a dull ping that sent
that debris scattering.

The shop was destroyed. It appeared the shooters wanted them
all dead. Talk about overkill....

Utilizing professional detachment, Reese stayed plastered to a
wall. As his man started to revive, he busted him again and let him slump supine
to the floor. He glanced across the room, but Rowdy had choked the other one
enough that he was breathing, but unresponsive even to the clamor surrounding
him.

“Get over here,” Peterson snapped when several more bullets
littered the interior, exploding yet another case.

“Move back.” As soon as Peterson got out of his way, Reese
snatched up the Desert Eagle, ducked low and, on his haunches, joined them for
cover. The damned counter wasn’t big enough to properly shield three people.

“Sit tight.” Rowdy slipped into the backroom.

Reese could just see him moving in a crouch, checking the small
john, a supply closet and another backroom. He was unarmed, damn it, so he had
no business playing hero.

“Rowdy.” Reese kept his voice calm and in control. “Damn it,
don’t do anything stupid.”

Rowdy returned, his expression grim. “We have to get out of
here. The artist is long gone, run off out a back door.”

If the owner could leave, that meant others could come in.
Great, this whole fuck-up just kept getting better and better.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“G
ONE
WHERE
?” Peterson asked, as she tried—unsuccessfully—to pull
her torn blouse together.

“Hell if I know. But only an idiot would’ve stuck around once
the shooting started.”

To punctuate that, more shots were fired.

Where the hell was backup? Surely someone—anyone—had called in
the gunfire by now. Even with suppressors, the denizens of the area had to know
an attempted murder was going down.

Rowdy had been keeping watch out back, but for a second there,
he stared at Peterson’s chest.

The lieutenant said low, “If you don’t want me to shoot you,
use those eyes to keep watch out the back.”

“I’m watching.” He lifted his gaze but didn’t smile. “And while
it’s clear, I’d suggest you hightail that sweet ass on out of here,
now,
while we can still go.”

Ignoring the sexist remark on her body, Peterson checked her
weapon and cursed. “That might be exactly what they want us to do.” She narrowed
her eyes on Reese. “What do you think? Not to give away an inside secret, but
how do you feel about calling your little entourage?”

Few on the force knew that Reese had personally vetted some of
the uniformed cops, forming a solid crew that was loyal to him. But calling them
a “little entourage” didn’t do them justice.

The men were smart, honorable and, above all, trustworthy. “Not
this time.” Calling in his own team on such short notice, bypassing on-duty
officers, would draw too much attention and defeat the entire purpose of keeping
an under-the-radar alliance.

Reese handed the gun with the suppressor to Rowdy, then pulled
off his T-shirt and offered it to Peterson.

Rowdy lifted a brow and said to Reese, “Spoilsport.”

“You’re pushing it, Rowdy Yates.” She took the shirt.

But damned if she didn’t stare at Reese’s chest as intently as
Rowdy had stared at hers.

It was like a comedy of errors, bizarre in the extreme. If they
weren’t in such incredible danger, he might have laughed. “Lieutenant?”

“Right. Thank you.” Showing off strong legs, Peterson struggled
into the shirt without standing up in sight of the gunmen or sitting on the
broken glass. The awkward position strained her thighs, especially in those
heels, but she didn’t seem to notice or care.

Reese pulled out his cell—and realized he’d busted it when he’d
tackled the gunman to the floor. “Damn it.” He sent a questioning look to
Peterson.

Her head cleared the shirt. “Dropped my purse on the other side
of the counter—with my phone in it.”

They both turned to Rowdy.

He withdrew his cell and tossed it to Reese. “Knock yourself
out.” Then, with a hand at the small of Peterson’s back, he helped to steady
her, so she could get her arms free.

Before Reese could make the call, they heard groans coming from
one of the downed men only yards away. He said as politely as he could manage
under the circumstances, “I suggest we move before we get cornered.”

“Damn it.” Maneuvering in the limited space, she finished
tugging the T-shirt down over her trim body. It fit like a damned tent,
billowing down below her knees, more than adequate to keep her covered.

Taking the lead, she said, “If you have to shoot, make damn
sure it isn’t a bystander.” And with that, gun held in front of her, she ducked
through the back of the store.

Still holding the Desert Eagle, Rowdy followed right behind
her.

Reese peeked around the counter to ensure no one followed. So
far, both men were still out, and he hadn’t heard a shot in the last few
sec—

A bullet hit the floor in front of his face, sending him
ducking for cover again. Not more than two or three minutes had passed, but
under these circumstances, a minute could feel like an hour.

He joined the others in back.

As Rowdy had said, the store was empty. The second they cleared
the doorway, Reese closed the door. There was a dead bolt on it, which to his
beleaguered senses seemed fairly suspect. What happened in this narrow room that
required such a sturdy lock?

He saw only shelves of supplies, a file cabinet and a single
chair...in the middle of the floor.

His brain buzzed with possibilities, but for now, the dead bolt
worked in their favor. He secured the lock and turned to assess the
situation.

Peterson stood beside the back door, her spine flattened
against the wall. At any other time, Reese might have paid more attention to how
mismatched she appeared in those mile-high heels and a printed T-shirt so large
it hung off one shoulder and fell below her knees.

Today was not that day.

He put in the call for backup, then pocketed Rowdy’s phone.
They had a squad car about five minutes out—which might not be soon enough if
they got into a shoot-out in such close confines. “Is it clear?”

She shrugged the bared shoulder. “Looks like. We open into an
alley that leads to the street. But since none of this was expected, are we
willing to trust that it’s not a trap?”

Reese weighed the options. “The angles are wrong unless they
have a sniper.” What to do? “If we stay here, we’re sitting ducks.”

“I have my car close by,” Rowdy said. “That alley leads to a
back street. I’m one block down in an empty lot.”

“Don’t even think it,” Peterson warned. She chewed the pink
gloss off her bottom lip. “Jesus, I never expected things to go so hot so
fast.”

“It’s insane,” Reese agreed as he tried to figure out what to
do.

The jarring sound of the front door crashing open drew his
attention. They wouldn’t have five seconds, much less five minutes. Whoever came
after them didn’t worry about witnesses or the destruction of Killer
Designz.

That could only mean they planned to kill all three of them and
be long gone before the police arrived.

Reese removed the Glock from his back holster and traded it for
the Desert Eagle.

Rowdy lifted a brow. “You want the bigger, badder gun?”

“I trust my weapon,” Reese explained. And he wanted to ensure
Rowdy could defend himself. “I know I’ve taken care of it.”

“Thanks.” Rowdy hefted it in his hand once, then launched out
the back door before Reese could stop him.

“Idiot,”
Peterson muttered in a
hiss.

Cursing softly, Reese divided his time between watching the
locked door, as the sounds of assailants drew closer, and watching Rowdy as he
darted to the end of the alley.

“What the hell is he doing?” Peterson asked.

Seeing Rowdy run without apparent fear of personal injury,
Reese muttered, “I assume he’s playing hero.”

Luckily, Rowdy made it without a single shot being fired. At
the end of the alley, near the street, he signaled that it was clear.

The lieutenant sucked in a breath and said, “Let’s go.”

Great. They’d either be killed or not, but sitting there
waiting to be murdered didn’t much appeal to him either. Reese followed her out,
impressed that she could run so fluidly in those deadly heels.

Rowdy covered them, his gaze going everywhere as he waited for
them to join him. Not a single shot was fired, and no more noise came from the
tattoo parlor.

Together, they hustled toward the lot holding Rowdy’s car. Soon
as they reached it, they could let the officers know they were clear.

And with any luck, they’d be able to round up the shooters.

But Reese wouldn’t be holding his breath; so far, luck hadn’t
been on their side.

Two questions pounded through his brain as they reached
safety.

Just how big was this operation—and how far would they go to
find Alice?

* * *

T
HE
PHONE
CALLS
had come in rapid
order.

First the warning call from Killer Designz, letting him know
that people were snooping around. He’d sent in his men, and they’d reported back
to say they had effectively razed the place, leaving behind little more than
rubble within an empty building. The curious trio had escaped, but not without
first understanding the reach of his power, the strength of his daring.

Smirking, Woody Simpson recalled the breathless panic of the
tattoo artist who, from a safer location, had called again. With the promise of
protection from the law, and a new and better location, concerns had been
quieted.

And now he had DeeDee on the line.

Feet propped on the desk, shirt unbuttoned and chair tilted
back, Woody listened to the final report on the day’s events. Thanks to a
fast-growing enterprise, he spent so much time in his office that he’d gradually
turned it into a comfortable, condolike space.

He didn’t cook, of course, but he had others who made use of
the small kitchen to prepare his meals. He had a large-screen TV and spacious
couch, and he’d brought in a king-size bed to convert a boardroom for
sleeping.

Not that he ever slept during the day. Even at night, he didn’t
need much sleep. He’d always been high-energy, motivated and so fucking smart
that others couldn’t keep up.

But when he wanted an afternoon distraction—as he’d planned
today before the phone started going off—the bed sometimes came in handy.

“So, you’re sure they’re cops?”

“I think so. They’re talking with officers now, and they seem
to be in charge or something.”

Interesting. Maybe this would be better than killing them. It’d
give him an opening, a way to infiltrate. He pondered the different plays and
came to a decision. “Follow them.”

A heavy pause, rife with uncertainty. “To...a police
station?”

“Sure.” Though he’d sent for her earlier, Woody waved off the
girl responsible for unbuttoning his shirt. She moved to a chair, sat down and
waited.

Like a good girl.

“But...” DeeDee tried to come up with logical arguments.

He hated being questioned—by anyone. “Wait there until they
come back out, and then follow. I want to know where they live.”

She hesitated. “What if they see me?”

“Make sure they don’t.” DeeDee had aspirations of moving up in
the organization. Unlike some of the girls, she was more eager to please.

As if he’d ever give any authority or power to a bimbo.

“You blend in, Dee. It should be a piece of cake for you to
stick close without being noticed.” Because she wanted to stand out and be
noticed, that subtle insult had her bristling.

Trying to sell him on her value, she said, “I already hit on
that rough bruiser, like you asked.”

“I know. You’re meeting him tonight, right?” Woody glanced at
his watch. “Plenty of time to do both.”

“I haven’t eaten since early this morning.”

God, he detested whining. “If you aren’t able to handle things,
just say so. I can ask Michelle to take over instead.”

“Michelle?”

“Yes.” He looked at the trembling girl sitting across the room.
“She’s been anxious to gain my favor, anyway.”

Michelle swallowed hard and looked away, her fear so palpable
that he wondered how she functioned. She had enough sense not to run away, to
perform as expected. And she did try to stay on his good side—but she was far
too skittish to ever be trusted with anything important.

Anything beyond a blow job.

“I can do it,” DeeDee groused.

Perfect. He could always count on DeeDee’s vanity to keep her
working harder. She wanted to be top girl.

She wanted to be his partner. Woody bit off a laugh at her
foolishness.

“Report back after you get the info.”

“Okay, but...who should I follow? I mean, I can’t follow three
people, can I?”

So damn stupid. Did he need to do all her thinking for her?
“Don’t worry about the woman.” Women were always inconsequential. “You’ll be
meeting one guy at the bar tonight, right? So follow the other today.”

“Oh, okay. Sure.” DeeDee cleared her throat, then said, “I did
tell you that the cop is the same guy who was here this morning, right? The one
the rough guy called?”

Slowly, Woody dropped his feet and sat forward. No, she hadn’t
told him that. His eyes narrowed. His mouth flattened with his annoyance.

So, they were onto...something. Sniffing around
twice.
How much did they know?

Who had talked?

Seeing his dark expression, Michelle let out a whimper.

Woody ignored her. He held the phone tighter, and said to
DeeDee, “Tell me now. And don’t leave anything out.”

* * *

I
T
WASN
’
T
EASY
, doing a job bare-chested because your
lieutenant needed the shirt off your back. The sun had broiled both his
shoulders and his temper. This time, it would take a lot to shake off the
vigilant, edgy anger. It would take Alice—but he couldn’t have her, not just
yet.

By the time the backup had arrived—which to Reese’s way of
thinking had taken longer than necessary—they’d already reached Rowdy’s car
without incident and had circled back around to the scene.

All had been quiet.

Instead of giving pursuit, the shooters had vacated the tattoo
parlor, taking the two downed men with them.

The boys in blue, as Rowdy liked to refer to them, showed up
well after that.

Reese wanted to believe that Lieutenant Peterson had scoured
out the corruption, but it seemed beyond suspect to him that a five-minute ETA
had taken twelve minutes instead.

Seven minutes could mean the difference between life and death.
He’d been furious—but Rowdy seemed to think nothing of it.

Even dressed in his shirt, Lieutenant Peterson took over with
ease, calling for several specific officers and dismissing the two who’d arrived
tardy.

Once they’d secured the scene, the unis had gone from door to
door, establishment to establishment, querying everyone in the area. Reese
wasn’t surprised that everyone had claimed not to see a damned thing.