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Despite the cloud of dust and the spray of gravel from the tires of the SUV, Colton followed hot on the guy’s tail. Finally, the lane came to an end, leaving the guy no choice but to stop in front of a house.
At least ten junk cars parked in the yard revealed that this was the auto body shop—or once was—as much as the sagging sign over the garage did.
“Jesus—he’s been right under our noses the entire time.”
The driver jumped out. Waving his hand and yelling to the inhabitants of the house to alert them that he was not alone, he took off at a dead run for the front door.
Hunter was big but known for his speed, and he used it to his advantage. In seconds, he crossed the yard and leaped at the guy. Tackling him to the ground, he pinned him flat.
“Don’t make a sound,” he bit off.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Colton approach, weapon in hand. He bashed the guy across the brow, knocking him out.
Hunter sprang to his feet. Weapon at the ready, he rushed to the door, aware that Colton was using zip-ties to secure the man he just tackled. When he glanced back, he caught sight of his friend dragging the man around the corner of the house.
Hunter threw open the door. Just as he expected, two men had heard their partner yelling about being followed and appeared armed with black market assault weapons.
Hunter didn’t think twice about drawing up and shooting each. Bodies fell, and he simply stepped over them.
In a quick sweep of the house, he discovered a third man seated at the kitchen table in a wife beater tank top with a stain down the front. The place smelled like unwashed bodies and dirty dishes. Jered Smythe clearly wasn’t paying his cohorts to live well.
The man looked up, pausing with a needle he was pushing into his vein. Before he could react, Hunter strode forward and locked a hand on his neck. He crumpled as Hunter dug his fingers into the pressure points that would knock him out. He slipped to the floor, the needle still hanging out of his arm.
Hunter moved on, swift and silent. When he heard voices projecting from a room, he stopped. Ivy’s incensed tone brought him up short.
Thank god she was alive—and still sassy.
Quickly, he poked his head around the corner to scope out the situation. A trashy guy in a dirty white T-shirt with several gold chains around his neck stood over her.
Ivy was tied to a chair.
Fury pounded through Hunter’s system. If they hurt her… Well, he would kill them no matter what.
He didn’t need to turn to know that Colton just appeared on his six.
Hunter held up one finger to indicate the number of men in that room with his woman.
“Where’s my water? I asked you for a drink an hour ago.” Ivy’s voice carried loud and clear.
“The water I gave you wasn’t good enough for you. Fucking woman.”
Hunter wasn’t waiting a second longer. He walked right into the room as if sent there by the head honcho himself.
Ivy’s eyes shot open wide. Her chest heaved on a silent gulp of air.
Hunter gained the guy’s attention. “Annoying, isn’t she? I know. She annoys me too.”
Ivy’s jaw dropped.
The man began to reply, but Hunter swooped in on him. “She is also my woman. And if you lay a hand on her, it’s not gonna go so well for you.”
Ivy turned her face toward him, giving him a perfect view of a bruise blooming on her cheekbone. One of her hands lay limp in her lap. Unnaturally limp.
The motherfucker had hurt her.
Hunter shot out a hand. He closed his fingers around the captor’s throat and squeezed.
Ivy shrieked. “He’s got a—”
