She shrugged. “I like her. Lana likes her. Seal the deal, babe, bring her into the fold.” She gave him her saucy grin and headed to her Harley.
Player immediately pulled out of the parking space. Zyah was long gone. She hadn’t waited and he had known she wouldn’t. She made it more than clear she wasn’t going to make it easy on him. He could live with that. From everything Code had uncovered about her grandmother and Zyah, she was worth whatever fight it took to get her.
The Gamals earned money from working hard—a lot of money—and yet Zyah drove a very modest car, one that was good for the type of weather she would run into on the coast but that didn’t cost much.
Instead of using the money the two women had worked so hard for, they had stashed it for retirement, or in savings. Zyah was willing to work two jobs—at the grocery store and at a restaurant where the waitresses were all belly dancers—to pay for her grandmother’s extra care and her therapy.
Player was very grateful to Alena for offering extra work to Zyah closer to home. The last thing he wanted was for his woman to belly dance in front of a bunch of strangers and then drive home alone, not that he’d let that happen. He would have to find out from Code whether or not she had accepted the other job—because anyone who’d seen her dance was going to offer her the job.
Player knew the road between Caspar and Sea Haven. The motorcycle, even in the mist coming off the ocean, was easy enough to maneuver. He caught up with Zyah before she turned onto the street where the house she’d bought for her grandmother was located. The street was narrow like many of those in Sea Haven. Most houses were set off the road behind fences or hedges, with arbors of vines or climbing flowers.
He wasn’t at all surprised that the Gamal house was a little different. It had the requisite white picket fence that seemed to line the road, adding charm to all the houses, but their property was unique in that it was a double-lot parcel. The house was a vintage Victorian, remodeled and beautifully kept, painted white with a red porch and accents. There was another building that appeared spacious, either a guesthouse or an art studio, as well as a double-car garage that was accessed from the back street.
Player followed Zyah around to a much narrower and less traveled road that was paved but was almost an alleyway. There were a few sparse houses, but mostly a long field of grass that separated the homes from the bluffs overlooking the ocean. As he parked across the street and walked over to the huge lot, he couldn’t help but be impressed with the massive, elegant gardens that made up the large backyard.
There was no doubt in his mind why thieves had targeted the Gamals. Property in Sea Haven didn’t come cheap no matter where it was situated, but if it had any kind of ocean view—and it was clear the Victorian at least had sweeping views of the bay from various points of the house, particularly the upper story—then the place was worth a fortune. He hadn’t bothered to look to see what the original price had been when Zyah had bought it for her grandmother, but the value had gone up, not down.
Zyah drove her car into the garage. He heard her exit the car and close the door. She must have been irritated at him for standing there looking at the garden because the garage door began to descend. That seemed out of character and even a little petty of her. She had agreed to allow him to meet her grandmother. It didn’t seem likely that she would force him to go around to the front door and knock when she could just bring him with her. Yeah, not at all like her. Definitely out of character. Zyah wasn’t a petty person.
Pure instinct more than anything else galvanized him into action. He sprinted up the drive and threw himself under the garage door, rolling at the last moment. The sensor on the door did its job the moment the ray came in contact with his body, and the door reversed direction, slowly, laboriously, rising toward the ceiling.
He heard three voices almost simultaneously. A male on a radio, gruff but clearly warning those inside to get out, that she wasn’t alone. A female inside, her voice distorted but adrenaline laced or very high, shouting, Fuck her up— fuck her up bad. And last, Zyah, warning him. Player, look out.
That told him they had a lookout and that Zyah had been specifically targeted. More, it was very personal to the female. He kept rolling toward Zyah, who was fighting with two men in ski masks. As he came to his feet, someone swung a baseball bat at his head. He caught the movement more by feel than by sight.
He blocked the baseball bat, went under it and struck hard, catching his assailant in the ribs, swung around and hit hard with an elbow to the jaw. His opponent dropped like a stone and Player took a step toward Zyah. She was keeping the two men off of her with fists and feet. They seemed determined to drag her out of an open side door almost directly behind her. She was equally determined to remain in the garage. His mind catalogued the smooth way she fought, fluid, flowing like water, never stopping. Yeah, his woman could fight.
Snapping a front kick at the next man coming at him, catching him hard in the upper thigh with the ball of his foot, knowing from experience that would deaden his leg, Player continued straight at him, going for his throat. The man grunted and pulled a weapon, aiming and firing in the small confines of the garage. Player threw himself over the hood of Zyah’s car, diving for the concrete. The burn of a bullet sheared off denim and skin as he landed, but it was the sound in the close confines of the garage that was the worst, his ears ringing with the blast, even though the gun had a silencer. Silencers were never as silent as most people thought, and with it so close, the blast hurt.
He landed hard and tried to roll toward Zyah, keeping his momentum going forward. Knowing the other side was using guns put an entirely different perspective on the fight. He came up, weapon in his fist, tracking the man closest to Zyah. He was grateful he’d had the foresight to use a silencer as well. Not all of his weapons had them, but each of the Torpedo Ink members carried them just in case.
Zyah was suddenly swung around, her body between him and his target just before he could take the shot. Player came up smoothly to get in a better position to aid her just as someone to his left shot him.
The bullet caught him on the left side of his head, blazing a groove from the back of his skull along the side to the front, and kept going straight, not slowing down in the least, hungry for more. It spun the man trying to drag Zyah out the door completely around, taking a chunk of skin with it as it tore through the garage wall and out into the street, where it lodged into the van waiting with door open.
Player went down hard, blood pouring down his skull and face and into his eyes, making it impossible to see a target. He didn’t dare shoot, not with Zyah close. His stomach lurched, and for a moment the room went black. He hung on to consciousness through sheer will.
Where the hell was Maestro? How long did it take to get the fucking truck and a few weapons?
“Get to me,” Player called to Zyah, wiping at the blood. He couldn’t get to her. He could barely breathe through the pain in his head. He could hear running.
“What the fuck are you thinking?” a voice yelled. “He’s Torpedo Ink. You kill him, they’ll never stop coming after us. We have to get out of here. Get the bitch and let’s go.”
“Zyah, call out now, right now.” He needed to know where she was. He had the position of the other voice.
“Right here.”