Page 64 of Branded Betrayal

But I have no interest in fucking with her tonight.

Only fucking her.

I scrub a hand down the front of my face. I can’t do it. She wants it, and hell, I definitely want it. But then what? The truth will come out, and she’ll go back to hating me.

The only reason why Nash hasn’t told her what really happened the night her parents died is because he’s just as guilty as I am. So for as much as he despises me, he’ll bury the truth because exposing it means exposing himself. But Wilkerson does not have that reservation.

An hour into the drive, a light flashes up ahead. Fuck. The cops.

I squint, the light getting brighter as I close in on the trucks blocking the road.

Cold snakes through my bones as a group of armed guys moves toward me.

Not cops.

I suddenly feel like Sonny Corleone driving through the tollbooth in The Godfather.

Nash’s words pop between my ears like bullets. “They know you. They’ll come for you.”

These guys are part of the Iron Horse syndicate. Rivals Wilkerson has wanted to eliminate for years.

“Get the fuck outta the truck, Hartman,” one of them yells.

“The fuck I will,” I say.

The guy laughs and points his gun at my front headlight. He squeezes off a shot. “Get out, or the next shot fired will blow off your fucking head.”

I eye the group, the gun burning a hole in my back. I’m a sitting duck in the truck. If I have any shot of escaping these assholes, I have to take them out on foot.

I push open the door and step out.

Another guy walks over to me and swings his gun at my jaw. White-hot pain explodes down the side of my face. “That was for what you did to Ryder six years ago. You shoulda stayed gone, soldier boy.”

Someone else checks out the crates on the flatbed. “Looks like a good take. We should load it all up.”

“And what about him?” the first guy asks, walking over to me. “We still need to settle old scores. That shit is just money. But this guy . . . he took more than our money. You remember, Hartman?”

I swallow hard as he brings the gun to the side of my face.

“Nah, this guy needs to pay, with his life,” he says through clenched teeth.

“It was an accident,” I say, my pulse throbbing at the memory.

Wilkerson had sent me to do a transport of smuggled goods. But instead of collecting the cash and taking off, things went sideways when a group of Wilkerson’s rivals showed up. His enemies always became my enemies.

I shot a kid when he reached into his jacket during the firefight. I thought he was pulling out a gun. But he was just grabbing his phone.

“The fuck it was,” he yells, cracking me with the gun. Again.

Then he turns and waves his hand at the other guys watching. “What the hell are you lookin’ at? Get the crates into the truck. Now!”

Big fucking mistake, asshole.

I pull out my gun and loop an arm around his throat. Then I point the barrel at his temple. “Back the fuck away from my truck now, or else I’ll put a hole in his brain.”

The guy’s hands fly up to my arm. He sputters as I tighten my grip. “Stay back,” he manages to choke out.

“Get in your trucks,” I say. “Now.”