Page 58 of Breaking His Exile

“We’ll take it slow.” Hobbs settled back. “You up for that, Calder? With the leg?”

“I’ll manage.”

He would. He’d managed worse. The Rangers had taught him to move on broken bones, to function through pain that would drop most men. What the Rangers hadn’t taught him was how to sit in a truck beside the man sent to kill the woman he was supposedly hunting and feel his stomach turn over at the thought of what would happen when they reached that cabin.

He’d had Evander Cole unconscious on the ground. He could have finished it clean.

Instead, he’d cleaned his own wound, bandaged his knee, searched Cole’s pack for anything useful, and called Mal with coordinates that placed the hunt on the ridge, not at the cabin door. Then he’d stabbed Cole, wiped the blade clean, and walked out into the rain.

Why?

The question had dogged him for the six hours since. He’d replayed the fight in his head a dozen times, looking for the moment his hand had hesitated. There hadn’t been one. He’d gone for Cole’s throat. Cole had gone for his flank. No quarter given.

But when it came time, he didn’t finish it.

Creed rubbed his thumb along the edge of the bandage on his flank. The wound throbbed in time with the truck’s suspension. Cole had known exactly how deep to go. Three inches, angled to miss anything vital. A warning shot delivered with a blade instead of a bullet.

A man who put a knife through Rux Granger’s throat had shown restraint with Creed Calder.

It didn’t track. Nothing about this job had tracked from the start.

“The girl,” Hobbs said. “Mal wants them her alive. He plans to deal with her betrayal himself.” His voice carried that soft, measured quality that made the hair on Creed’s arms stand up. “But Rux’s death requires blood. Evander Cole doesn’t walk away from this mountain. You understand that, right?” He directed the question at Creed.

“I understand.”

“Do you? Because you called this in instead of finishing it yourself. Man like you, trained the way you were trained. I find that interesting.”

Creed kept his eyes on the road from between the seats. “Terrain’s against a solo approach. My knee was shot, and I was bleeding. Cole had the high ground and a rifle. Calling it in was the smart play.”

“Was it.” Not a question. “Mal was surprised you called at all. Figured you for the type to handle your own problems. That’s what he pays you for. Handling problems without making them his.”

The truck hit another rut. Creed’s teeth clicked together. The cabin light swung in his vision, steady as a beacon.

“I handle problems,” he said. “I don’t suicide-run them.”

A beat of silence. Then, soft: “Fair enough.”

The road ended fifty yards ahead. The kid pulled the truck into a turnout where the shoulder widened enough to park without blocking what remained of the roadway. Killed the engine. The sudden quiet pressed in, broken only by the tick of cooling metal and the distant rush of the creek below.

Hobbs opened his door. Cold rain-soaked air flooded the cab. Creed reached for the handle and paused, his hand on the vinyl, and took one last look at that distant point of light.

Rainey Beckett was in that cabin. With Evander Cole. A woman who’d witnessed a murder, and the man who’d killed to keep her breathing.

And Creed was about to deliver Hobbs to their doorstep.

He was not going to feel fucking guilty for that. He was done feeling guilty about shit that wasn’t his fault.

He shoved open his door.

sixteen

Tilly’s growl jerked Evander awake.

He shot out of bed and grabbed his rifle before Rainey even sat up. “What?”

“Someone’s here.”

“Fuck.” She scrambled out of bed and yanked on her clothes. Thankfully, he was still mostly dressed, minus his shirt. She scooped it off the floor and threw it at him. He took a second to pull it on, ignoring the spark of pain flaring behind his eyes, and crossed to the window.