Not Her Hero, page 3
Marc eyed the dark slacks, the expensive-looking sandals, the professional pedicure.
“I kidnapped the governor.”
Marc should have slammed the damn door in their faces.
3
“Fuuuuuuuck.”
That comment came from the one with the deeper voice, after Ray dropped his little bombshell. Whitney had begun to wonder if that was even his name, except the other guy had said it at least twice, and even though Brent had clearly been hoodwinked, she had to believe a fake name would have popped for her normally overly thorough head of security.
She continued to stand perfectly still, listening to their conversation. Thank God she’d been raised by a military father and a staunchly proper mother. She’d resented all those forced lessons in being a proper young woman until she’d gone to college and majored in public policy and decided she wanted to change the world. That upbringing had served her well in the world of public scrutiny, and it was serving her well now.
Not that she’d ever, not once in a million years, considered the idea that she might be kidnapped by a punk kid who had figured out how to get a job as a security officer for the freaking governor. Brent was going to lose his damn mind when he figured out she was missing.
How the hell had it happened?
This kid had to have gone through the Michigan State Police Academy and then applied—and gotten accepted—to work for the Executive Security Division, which had some of the highest standards out there.
Was he even old enough for all that?
One of these two guys mentioned the Anarchy Boys. They were a loosely organized local militia group that loudly and aggressively protested just about every bill she’d ever supported.
Requiring background checks and a waiting period to purchase firearms—the House’s reaction to a rash of school shootings—had been their first beef with her administration and thus her personally. She supposed, in a backassward way, they had to disagree with that policy, given their claim of existing to protect their right to bear arms.
Because attempting to keep guns out of the hands of individuals who might not be mentally stable enough to, say, not kill innocent people, was the gateway to abolishing the Second Amendment.
Even if she wanted to—which, by the way, gun owner here—Whitney did not remotely have the sort of power it would take to change an amendment to the Constitution. Not that those lunatics were rational enough to realize that.
They also took offense to her recommendation to tax cigarettes so the state could pour money into school systems that desperately needed the infusion. According to the Anarchy Boys, this was infringing on their rights in the same way her predecessor’s decision to ban indoor smoking had infringed on their rights.
According to articles she’d read online, the fact that she was a woman only made her decisions that much more offensive to these guys.
They were chock-full of rational, logical thought processes, weren’t they?
The Anarchy Boys must be the reason Brent had been so adamant that the increased threats were very real. Turned out, he was right.
The group was far more organized than she’d ever given them credit for if one of their own had been able to infiltrate Brent’s ranks.
This kid, Ray, said he needed to prove his worth. So the Anarchy Boys hadn’t accepted him as one of their own yet.
Unfortunately, the potential recruits were some of the most dangerous ones. Like gang recruits, trying to prove they were worthy. The Anarchy Boys would undoubtedly deny it, but it was the same damn concept.
It was getting difficult to breathe with this sack over her head. Not to mention the gag Ray had managed to get on her beforehand. She’d give the kid credit; he’d been swift and thorough once he’d enacted his plan.
As soon as he’d turned the wrong way after leaving the capitol, she’d reached for her cell phone. But he’d turned sharply into an alley she hadn’t even known existed, despite having worked in this area since graduating from law school, knocking her off balance.
By the time she’d stretched across the seat to reach for the phone that had landed on the floor, he’d turned around in his seat and pointed a gun at her head, calmly telling her to pick up the phone nice and easy and hand it to him.
Yes, she’d given it to him because people pulled the trigger for all sorts of reasons that shouldn’t even be reasons, and she wasn’t in a hurry to be a statistic.
He'd tossed the device out the window.
She still had her computer bag, and her own gun was tucked into a side pocket of her purse, at least until he scrambled out of the driver’s seat, wrenched open the back door, and hauled her out onto the pavement—in an area she doubted was monitored by security cameras and she’d bet he was fully aware of that fact.
In one swift movement, her hands had been secured behind her back. That was when it finally occurred to her that she should struggle, except it was too late, and in an embarrassingly quick fashion, she was gagged, that stupid burlap sack shoved over the upper half of her body, and then he’d led her to another car, leaving her bag and her gun in the state-owned SUV. Because he was probably savvy enough to realize the vehicle would have a GPS tracker on it.
Then she’d started panicking.
Hell, did that sort of precaution even require someone to be savvy?
Not even two months ago, Brent had jokingly suggested they put a GPS tracker on her favorite ring, the one she wore all the time, the one her mother had given her as a congratulatory gift when she’d been sworn in as governor.
“This is just the beginning,” Mom had said with tears in her eyes. She’d been wearing pearls and a lace collar. She’d had high hopes that she’d get to witness her daughter be sworn in as the first female president of the United States.
Except Mom died six months later, and Whitney had been second-guessing her political career track ever since.
This kidnapping situation certainly wasn’t helping with that decision.
“The governor, Ray? Are you out of your fucking mind? Every law enforcement official in the state, not to mention the federal government, is going to be bearing down on your ass.”
Whoever the second guy was, at least he was thinking like a rational human being. And he was right, except that Ray had been smart enough to pull off this kidnapping on a Friday evening before a rare weekend during which she actually had no public appearances planned. Even Brent understood that when she had nothing scheduled, she tended to stay locked up at home like a hermit, recharging and preparing to face the world again on Monday with a cheery, confident smile on her face.
Which meant he left her to her own devices, save the security personnel assigned to hang out in their vehicles at the end of her driveway all day and all night.
Wait, maybe it wouldn’t be Monday morning before anyone realized she was missing. Whichever security guard was supposed to watch her house this evening would figure out something was off when she didn’t arrive home. Okay, that was good. The tentacles of panic wrapping around her receded a bit.
“Not right away,” Ray boasted. “Not only was it my job to take her home from the capitol, but I committed to taking first shift on security detail tonight. As long as I’m parked in front of her house at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow, when the next person relieves me, no one will be the wiser. I was told she doesn’t interact with her security team much when she’s at home. We probably have until Monday morning, when she’s supposed to head into the office, before anyone raises any alarms. And the Anarchy Boys will have done whatever they plan to do with her long before then.”
Well, hell. That panic she’d been fighting since he gagged her and threw that sack over her head was rearing up twofold. She tried to suck in a breath through her nose—which was the only way she could breathe, currently—but her senses didn’t want to cooperate. Her body wanted to breathe shallowly through her mouth, which was virtually impossible at the moment.
Black dots swam in her vision, which was off-putting considering she couldn’t see anything but muted light through the grainy material. Oh hell, was she about to pass out? She’d been so stoic until now, damn it. She did not want to go down in front of these guys. She would not go down in front of—
“I got you. Hang on, let’s get you over here.”
A thick, muscular arm wrapped around her waist, attempting to guide her, except her legs had decided to stop working. When she stumbled, she was swept into someone’s arms, her side pressed against an impressively hard chest. If this was Ray, she was probably going to puke—the idea of being attracted to her kidnapper was nauseating.
And then she was placed on what she guessed was a couch. It felt like broken in, cozy leather. The kind one would want to curl up on, wrapped in a blanket, and watch movies during a snowstorm.
Oh yeah, she was officially losing the plot. Probably the lack of oxygen to her brain.
The sack was removed, and she blinked rapidly, even though it wasn’t very bright wherever she was. Somebody sat down next to her, heavier than she was, and unable to move her arms to assist with her balance, she leaned her body into him, once again pressing against some seriously impressive muscles.
Whoever it was reached behind her head and untied the gag. The moment it fell from her mouth, she gasped in air like a starved woman.
“Hang on, hang on, slow down so you don’t pass out,” the man murmured. He pushed her to arm’s length, and she finally turned her head toward him.
He had dark, wavy hair that looked like it was slightly past the verge of needing a cut, and a heavy coating of stubble on his face. His nose was narrow and patriarchal, his eyes a startlingly bright blue with specs of gold in their depth. She was acutely aware of their color because he was currently cupping her face, forcing her to stare into them.
She didn’t need to drag her gaze away to check out the rest of him; she already knew he was loaded with muscle upon muscle, and cripes, what was wrong with her? Even though he didn’t exactly sound like he was a fan of the Anarchy Boys, this had been the place Ray had chosen to take her after kidnapping her, which meant whoever this person was, he was most certainly not someone she ought to be ogling or thinking dirty thoughts about.
“Breathe,” he commanded, his hands still on her cheeks, like he’d been through this scenario before and knew exactly what to do. “Look at me. Focus. Breathe. Slowly. Deep. There you go.”
The black spots disappeared, the shaking she hadn’t realized was happening until now began to fade. Blood flow and oxygen returned to all the right places in her body.
“Good?” he asked.
Well, no, but at least she wasn’t in danger of passing out.
He continued to stare at her, continued to hold her face in his hands, and it took her far too long to realize he wasn’t going to let her go until she responded.
She cleared her throat and nodded, and he finally released his hold and stood. As he moved away from her, she noted the tattoo peeking out from the edge of the sleeve on his navy T-shirt. She also noted the way his ass filled out his jeans, and she shook her head aggressively.
These were not the details she should be focused on right now.
Forcing her attention away from his far too mouthwatering body, she took stock of her surroundings. She needed to commit those details to memory, so that if—when—she was rescued, she could give a full report, which would help put her kidnappers away for a very, very long time. Kidnapping in general was a major offense, but when it was an elected official, well … Ray, and possibly this guy, were going to be in boiling hot water.
The couch she sat on faced a sliding glass door leading out to a small rectangular cement patio. The yard seemed to disappear only a handful of feet beyond the patio. In the waning light, she could see the crowns of a thick canopy of trees. This house must be built into the side of a hill.
Looking over her shoulder, she spotted stairs, a full kitchen that appeared serviceable if dated, a partially open door that probably led to a utility room or maybe a bathroom.
Her most logical escape route was through the sliding glass door, except she’d have a hell of a time getting down what was clearly a steep embankment. Or she could open that glass door and turn to the right or left and hurry around to the front of the house. That made more sense; she was more likely to catch the attention of a passerby if she were running down the street rather than through the woods.
Not to mention, she hadn’t planned her footwear for a jaunt through the forest.
“What the hell are you doing?”
The anger, the incredulous tone in that voice made Whitney whip her head around to focus on the two men in the room with her. Ray had his phone in his hand and was tapping on the screen. The other guy, the one who had uttered the furious question, stomped over and snatched the tiny computer out of the kid’s hand.
He glanced down at the screen and then swiftly to her before returning his gaze to the phone. “Goddamn it, Ray!” With that, he flung the phone at the nearest wall, where it hit with a resounding crash and practically disintegrated upon impact.
Holy shit.
“Hey,” Ray shouted. “That’s my phone!”
The other guy stabbed his finger at Ray’s shoulder, sending the kid stuttering backward a couple of steps. “You told your crazy asshole friends to come to my fucking house? Are you out of your damn mind?”
“How else am I supposed to turn her over?”
The other guy’s gaze slid Whitney’s way again before he closed his eyes for the count of five.
Whitney counted with him. And held her breath the entire time.
When he opened them again, he was staring steadily at Ray.
“You aren’t turning over the governor, Ray.”
Whitney didn’t even bother to try to keep from sagging against the couch with relief.
4
Marc closed his eyes again. The image of the governor—the fucking governor of the state of Michigan—her eyes wide and unseeing, her breathing so shallow she was clearly not getting in enough oxygen, her limbs shaking—seated next to him, having a panic attack, popped into view behind his lids.
He'd seen the woman plenty on TV, on his phone, on billboards, on lots of flyers during the last election, but he’d never seen her up close and personal before.
And yeah, maybe he’d thought she was hot, for a political figure who, he assumed, was older than him, but holy hell, pictures and television appearances had nothing on the real deal.
Nothing.
Dark hair. Lightly tanned skin. Pale green eyes. They were almond shaped, surrounded by thick lashes. Perfectly manicured brows. High cheekbones. Plump, pillowy lips. Jesus, he was half in lust without even dipping his gaze below her neck.
Of course, he didn’t necessarily need the visual of her body, since he’d held her in his arms on not one but two occasions in the last few minutes.
His brother had kidnapped the fucking governor. Yeah, this was way more important at the moment than Marc’s misguided attraction to the woman. If he were meeting her under normal circumstances, he likely wouldn’t even get close enough for a handshake, let alone enough to slip his arm around her waist and pull her so tightly against his body he was able to tell that she kept herself in shape.
Okay, back to the important stuff. Ray kidnapped the governor. How the fuck had he managed that? Ray had zero education, couldn’t keep a damn job—hell, he didn’t even have a regular place to lay his head at night.
As soon as Marc signed the lease on this place, Ray had begun crashing here—and hadn’t contributed to the rent—until the day he invited those psychopaths over to “watch the game,” a.k.a. feel out Marc to see if he had any interest in joining their shitty-ass group.
He'd been through this rigmarole before, and yeah, not interested. They’d had the nerve to show up with those fucking neck gators covering half their faces. Not that it would have helped their sales pitch if they hadn’t.
When they’d tried to recruit him back in high school, they hadn’t hidden their identities. But then again, the stakes hadn’t felt quite so high back then. The group had been little more than a nuisance seventeen years ago, hadn’t had much of a reach beyond the county line; today they’d convinced his brother to kidnap a public official.
He could see why these fringe groups had moved to wearing gear that hid their identities. And all it did was reinforce his already staunch belief that he needed to stay the hell away from those guys.
Ray needed to as well. Jesus.
He probably shouldn’t have kicked his brother out that day Ray had invited those hoodlums over, but damn it, Marc liked his peace and quiet. Frankly, he deserved it after all that time he spent on foreign soil, doing unspeakable things in the name of maintaining—or creating—freedom. The last thing he was interested in was getting caught up with a group that stole freedoms rather than fought for them.
Theoretically, this was an easy fix. Take the governor back to the capitol building or wherever, explain what happened, and walk away. Marc hadn’t done anything wrong at this point.
Except that wasn’t how the law worked, and he damn well knew it. Kidnapping a government official was a hugely serious offense. Definitely a felony. Maybe even considered treason.
Ray was going to go away for a very long time if Marc did what was clearly the right thing in this situation. Hell, Marc would probably get arrested, might even be charged with aiding and abetting. He’d have to go through all sorts of red tape and expensive legal stuff to prove himself innocent, and while he had his VA benefits, he had no idea if legal representation was part of the package. And since he was down to his last couple months’ rent in his bank account, there was no way in hell he could pay for his own lawyer.
Damn, he was going down a rabbit hole, wasn’t he? Usually, in situations like this—okay, scratch that. He’d never been in a situation even remotely like this. But he’d certainly been in life-and-death situations. And normally, he was cool and calm, analyzing the scenario and making rational decisions that would allow everyone—assuming about a million different things all went right at the exact same time—to get out alive.
“I kidnapped the governor.”
Marc should have slammed the damn door in their faces.
3
“Fuuuuuuuck.”
That comment came from the one with the deeper voice, after Ray dropped his little bombshell. Whitney had begun to wonder if that was even his name, except the other guy had said it at least twice, and even though Brent had clearly been hoodwinked, she had to believe a fake name would have popped for her normally overly thorough head of security.
She continued to stand perfectly still, listening to their conversation. Thank God she’d been raised by a military father and a staunchly proper mother. She’d resented all those forced lessons in being a proper young woman until she’d gone to college and majored in public policy and decided she wanted to change the world. That upbringing had served her well in the world of public scrutiny, and it was serving her well now.
Not that she’d ever, not once in a million years, considered the idea that she might be kidnapped by a punk kid who had figured out how to get a job as a security officer for the freaking governor. Brent was going to lose his damn mind when he figured out she was missing.
How the hell had it happened?
This kid had to have gone through the Michigan State Police Academy and then applied—and gotten accepted—to work for the Executive Security Division, which had some of the highest standards out there.
Was he even old enough for all that?
One of these two guys mentioned the Anarchy Boys. They were a loosely organized local militia group that loudly and aggressively protested just about every bill she’d ever supported.
Requiring background checks and a waiting period to purchase firearms—the House’s reaction to a rash of school shootings—had been their first beef with her administration and thus her personally. She supposed, in a backassward way, they had to disagree with that policy, given their claim of existing to protect their right to bear arms.
Because attempting to keep guns out of the hands of individuals who might not be mentally stable enough to, say, not kill innocent people, was the gateway to abolishing the Second Amendment.
Even if she wanted to—which, by the way, gun owner here—Whitney did not remotely have the sort of power it would take to change an amendment to the Constitution. Not that those lunatics were rational enough to realize that.
They also took offense to her recommendation to tax cigarettes so the state could pour money into school systems that desperately needed the infusion. According to the Anarchy Boys, this was infringing on their rights in the same way her predecessor’s decision to ban indoor smoking had infringed on their rights.
According to articles she’d read online, the fact that she was a woman only made her decisions that much more offensive to these guys.
They were chock-full of rational, logical thought processes, weren’t they?
The Anarchy Boys must be the reason Brent had been so adamant that the increased threats were very real. Turned out, he was right.
The group was far more organized than she’d ever given them credit for if one of their own had been able to infiltrate Brent’s ranks.
This kid, Ray, said he needed to prove his worth. So the Anarchy Boys hadn’t accepted him as one of their own yet.
Unfortunately, the potential recruits were some of the most dangerous ones. Like gang recruits, trying to prove they were worthy. The Anarchy Boys would undoubtedly deny it, but it was the same damn concept.
It was getting difficult to breathe with this sack over her head. Not to mention the gag Ray had managed to get on her beforehand. She’d give the kid credit; he’d been swift and thorough once he’d enacted his plan.
As soon as he’d turned the wrong way after leaving the capitol, she’d reached for her cell phone. But he’d turned sharply into an alley she hadn’t even known existed, despite having worked in this area since graduating from law school, knocking her off balance.
By the time she’d stretched across the seat to reach for the phone that had landed on the floor, he’d turned around in his seat and pointed a gun at her head, calmly telling her to pick up the phone nice and easy and hand it to him.
Yes, she’d given it to him because people pulled the trigger for all sorts of reasons that shouldn’t even be reasons, and she wasn’t in a hurry to be a statistic.
He'd tossed the device out the window.
She still had her computer bag, and her own gun was tucked into a side pocket of her purse, at least until he scrambled out of the driver’s seat, wrenched open the back door, and hauled her out onto the pavement—in an area she doubted was monitored by security cameras and she’d bet he was fully aware of that fact.
In one swift movement, her hands had been secured behind her back. That was when it finally occurred to her that she should struggle, except it was too late, and in an embarrassingly quick fashion, she was gagged, that stupid burlap sack shoved over the upper half of her body, and then he’d led her to another car, leaving her bag and her gun in the state-owned SUV. Because he was probably savvy enough to realize the vehicle would have a GPS tracker on it.
Then she’d started panicking.
Hell, did that sort of precaution even require someone to be savvy?
Not even two months ago, Brent had jokingly suggested they put a GPS tracker on her favorite ring, the one she wore all the time, the one her mother had given her as a congratulatory gift when she’d been sworn in as governor.
“This is just the beginning,” Mom had said with tears in her eyes. She’d been wearing pearls and a lace collar. She’d had high hopes that she’d get to witness her daughter be sworn in as the first female president of the United States.
Except Mom died six months later, and Whitney had been second-guessing her political career track ever since.
This kidnapping situation certainly wasn’t helping with that decision.
“The governor, Ray? Are you out of your fucking mind? Every law enforcement official in the state, not to mention the federal government, is going to be bearing down on your ass.”
Whoever the second guy was, at least he was thinking like a rational human being. And he was right, except that Ray had been smart enough to pull off this kidnapping on a Friday evening before a rare weekend during which she actually had no public appearances planned. Even Brent understood that when she had nothing scheduled, she tended to stay locked up at home like a hermit, recharging and preparing to face the world again on Monday with a cheery, confident smile on her face.
Which meant he left her to her own devices, save the security personnel assigned to hang out in their vehicles at the end of her driveway all day and all night.
Wait, maybe it wouldn’t be Monday morning before anyone realized she was missing. Whichever security guard was supposed to watch her house this evening would figure out something was off when she didn’t arrive home. Okay, that was good. The tentacles of panic wrapping around her receded a bit.
“Not right away,” Ray boasted. “Not only was it my job to take her home from the capitol, but I committed to taking first shift on security detail tonight. As long as I’m parked in front of her house at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow, when the next person relieves me, no one will be the wiser. I was told she doesn’t interact with her security team much when she’s at home. We probably have until Monday morning, when she’s supposed to head into the office, before anyone raises any alarms. And the Anarchy Boys will have done whatever they plan to do with her long before then.”
Well, hell. That panic she’d been fighting since he gagged her and threw that sack over her head was rearing up twofold. She tried to suck in a breath through her nose—which was the only way she could breathe, currently—but her senses didn’t want to cooperate. Her body wanted to breathe shallowly through her mouth, which was virtually impossible at the moment.
Black dots swam in her vision, which was off-putting considering she couldn’t see anything but muted light through the grainy material. Oh hell, was she about to pass out? She’d been so stoic until now, damn it. She did not want to go down in front of these guys. She would not go down in front of—
“I got you. Hang on, let’s get you over here.”
A thick, muscular arm wrapped around her waist, attempting to guide her, except her legs had decided to stop working. When she stumbled, she was swept into someone’s arms, her side pressed against an impressively hard chest. If this was Ray, she was probably going to puke—the idea of being attracted to her kidnapper was nauseating.
And then she was placed on what she guessed was a couch. It felt like broken in, cozy leather. The kind one would want to curl up on, wrapped in a blanket, and watch movies during a snowstorm.
Oh yeah, she was officially losing the plot. Probably the lack of oxygen to her brain.
The sack was removed, and she blinked rapidly, even though it wasn’t very bright wherever she was. Somebody sat down next to her, heavier than she was, and unable to move her arms to assist with her balance, she leaned her body into him, once again pressing against some seriously impressive muscles.
Whoever it was reached behind her head and untied the gag. The moment it fell from her mouth, she gasped in air like a starved woman.
“Hang on, hang on, slow down so you don’t pass out,” the man murmured. He pushed her to arm’s length, and she finally turned her head toward him.
He had dark, wavy hair that looked like it was slightly past the verge of needing a cut, and a heavy coating of stubble on his face. His nose was narrow and patriarchal, his eyes a startlingly bright blue with specs of gold in their depth. She was acutely aware of their color because he was currently cupping her face, forcing her to stare into them.
She didn’t need to drag her gaze away to check out the rest of him; she already knew he was loaded with muscle upon muscle, and cripes, what was wrong with her? Even though he didn’t exactly sound like he was a fan of the Anarchy Boys, this had been the place Ray had chosen to take her after kidnapping her, which meant whoever this person was, he was most certainly not someone she ought to be ogling or thinking dirty thoughts about.
“Breathe,” he commanded, his hands still on her cheeks, like he’d been through this scenario before and knew exactly what to do. “Look at me. Focus. Breathe. Slowly. Deep. There you go.”
The black spots disappeared, the shaking she hadn’t realized was happening until now began to fade. Blood flow and oxygen returned to all the right places in her body.
“Good?” he asked.
Well, no, but at least she wasn’t in danger of passing out.
He continued to stare at her, continued to hold her face in his hands, and it took her far too long to realize he wasn’t going to let her go until she responded.
She cleared her throat and nodded, and he finally released his hold and stood. As he moved away from her, she noted the tattoo peeking out from the edge of the sleeve on his navy T-shirt. She also noted the way his ass filled out his jeans, and she shook her head aggressively.
These were not the details she should be focused on right now.
Forcing her attention away from his far too mouthwatering body, she took stock of her surroundings. She needed to commit those details to memory, so that if—when—she was rescued, she could give a full report, which would help put her kidnappers away for a very, very long time. Kidnapping in general was a major offense, but when it was an elected official, well … Ray, and possibly this guy, were going to be in boiling hot water.
The couch she sat on faced a sliding glass door leading out to a small rectangular cement patio. The yard seemed to disappear only a handful of feet beyond the patio. In the waning light, she could see the crowns of a thick canopy of trees. This house must be built into the side of a hill.
Looking over her shoulder, she spotted stairs, a full kitchen that appeared serviceable if dated, a partially open door that probably led to a utility room or maybe a bathroom.
Her most logical escape route was through the sliding glass door, except she’d have a hell of a time getting down what was clearly a steep embankment. Or she could open that glass door and turn to the right or left and hurry around to the front of the house. That made more sense; she was more likely to catch the attention of a passerby if she were running down the street rather than through the woods.
Not to mention, she hadn’t planned her footwear for a jaunt through the forest.
“What the hell are you doing?”
The anger, the incredulous tone in that voice made Whitney whip her head around to focus on the two men in the room with her. Ray had his phone in his hand and was tapping on the screen. The other guy, the one who had uttered the furious question, stomped over and snatched the tiny computer out of the kid’s hand.
He glanced down at the screen and then swiftly to her before returning his gaze to the phone. “Goddamn it, Ray!” With that, he flung the phone at the nearest wall, where it hit with a resounding crash and practically disintegrated upon impact.
Holy shit.
“Hey,” Ray shouted. “That’s my phone!”
The other guy stabbed his finger at Ray’s shoulder, sending the kid stuttering backward a couple of steps. “You told your crazy asshole friends to come to my fucking house? Are you out of your damn mind?”
“How else am I supposed to turn her over?”
The other guy’s gaze slid Whitney’s way again before he closed his eyes for the count of five.
Whitney counted with him. And held her breath the entire time.
When he opened them again, he was staring steadily at Ray.
“You aren’t turning over the governor, Ray.”
Whitney didn’t even bother to try to keep from sagging against the couch with relief.
4
Marc closed his eyes again. The image of the governor—the fucking governor of the state of Michigan—her eyes wide and unseeing, her breathing so shallow she was clearly not getting in enough oxygen, her limbs shaking—seated next to him, having a panic attack, popped into view behind his lids.
He'd seen the woman plenty on TV, on his phone, on billboards, on lots of flyers during the last election, but he’d never seen her up close and personal before.
And yeah, maybe he’d thought she was hot, for a political figure who, he assumed, was older than him, but holy hell, pictures and television appearances had nothing on the real deal.
Nothing.
Dark hair. Lightly tanned skin. Pale green eyes. They were almond shaped, surrounded by thick lashes. Perfectly manicured brows. High cheekbones. Plump, pillowy lips. Jesus, he was half in lust without even dipping his gaze below her neck.
Of course, he didn’t necessarily need the visual of her body, since he’d held her in his arms on not one but two occasions in the last few minutes.
His brother had kidnapped the fucking governor. Yeah, this was way more important at the moment than Marc’s misguided attraction to the woman. If he were meeting her under normal circumstances, he likely wouldn’t even get close enough for a handshake, let alone enough to slip his arm around her waist and pull her so tightly against his body he was able to tell that she kept herself in shape.
Okay, back to the important stuff. Ray kidnapped the governor. How the fuck had he managed that? Ray had zero education, couldn’t keep a damn job—hell, he didn’t even have a regular place to lay his head at night.
As soon as Marc signed the lease on this place, Ray had begun crashing here—and hadn’t contributed to the rent—until the day he invited those psychopaths over to “watch the game,” a.k.a. feel out Marc to see if he had any interest in joining their shitty-ass group.
He'd been through this rigmarole before, and yeah, not interested. They’d had the nerve to show up with those fucking neck gators covering half their faces. Not that it would have helped their sales pitch if they hadn’t.
When they’d tried to recruit him back in high school, they hadn’t hidden their identities. But then again, the stakes hadn’t felt quite so high back then. The group had been little more than a nuisance seventeen years ago, hadn’t had much of a reach beyond the county line; today they’d convinced his brother to kidnap a public official.
He could see why these fringe groups had moved to wearing gear that hid their identities. And all it did was reinforce his already staunch belief that he needed to stay the hell away from those guys.
Ray needed to as well. Jesus.
He probably shouldn’t have kicked his brother out that day Ray had invited those hoodlums over, but damn it, Marc liked his peace and quiet. Frankly, he deserved it after all that time he spent on foreign soil, doing unspeakable things in the name of maintaining—or creating—freedom. The last thing he was interested in was getting caught up with a group that stole freedoms rather than fought for them.
Theoretically, this was an easy fix. Take the governor back to the capitol building or wherever, explain what happened, and walk away. Marc hadn’t done anything wrong at this point.
Except that wasn’t how the law worked, and he damn well knew it. Kidnapping a government official was a hugely serious offense. Definitely a felony. Maybe even considered treason.
Ray was going to go away for a very long time if Marc did what was clearly the right thing in this situation. Hell, Marc would probably get arrested, might even be charged with aiding and abetting. He’d have to go through all sorts of red tape and expensive legal stuff to prove himself innocent, and while he had his VA benefits, he had no idea if legal representation was part of the package. And since he was down to his last couple months’ rent in his bank account, there was no way in hell he could pay for his own lawyer.
Damn, he was going down a rabbit hole, wasn’t he? Usually, in situations like this—okay, scratch that. He’d never been in a situation even remotely like this. But he’d certainly been in life-and-death situations. And normally, he was cool and calm, analyzing the scenario and making rational decisions that would allow everyone—assuming about a million different things all went right at the exact same time—to get out alive.
