He closed the file slowly.

“Contact Angel,” he growled. “I want to know where the hell she’s headed.”

Tracker arched his brow at the demand. “She’ll contact me when Lyrica stops.”

“What role do you intend to play in this, Tracker?” Graham hoped like hell the man didn’t think he was just going to sit back and watch while the rest of them fought to protect her. He’d help, or he’d wish he had.

“Getting involved, Graham?” Tracker asked softly, the question causing Graham to tense. “I didn’t expect that, despite the appearance of interest. She doesn’t appear to be a ‘flavor’ to me.” His gaze flicked to Dawg.

The smile he gave the other man was hard and filled with warning. “And it’s not exactly any of your business,” Graham assured him softly.

Tracker grinned at that. “I don’t know, she’s pretty as a little speckled pup. I might want to take her home with me.”

The comment drew a reaction, despite Graham’s best intentions.

The conversation between him and Sam where Graham had identified Lyrica as a pup popped into his mind. The knowing look on Tracker’s face assured him that was the intent. There was no way in hell the other man had tapped his phone or bugged his house, and that left only one other person he could have compromised.

Sam Bryce.

“I’ll take care of that one, Tracker,” he promised the other man, knowing the mercenary would be well aware that Graham knew how he’d managed to come by the information.

“I’m sure you will,” Tracker answered softly. “But be certain you know the means by which it was acquired before you destroy a friendship, Graham. I’d hate to put you on the dark side of the acquaintance list. Know what I mean?”

“I don’t,” Dawg snapped, obviously tired of the oblique conversation. “Want to clue us the fuck in or shut the hell up?”

Tracker’s grin was one Graham had seen on the Mackays’ lips more than once. Equal amounts of mocking amusement and irritation.

Though, there was a hint of respect there, too, Graham thought.

Rather than making one of his infamous smart remarks, Tracker inclined his head in agreement. “Point taken,” he murmured. “Graham and I perhaps know each other a little too well.”

“And that perhaps bothers me a little too much,” Dawg said as he shot Graham a glare.

Hell, he was getting damned sick of the glares, glowers, and silent promises of retribution being shot his way.

“How do you intend to proceed with this?” he asked the mercenary rather than adding to whatever fuel the Mackays were gathering against him.

“That’s my call,” Dawg inserted, his voice soft, challenging, as Graham met his glare.

“Would you like to enlighten us, maybe?” Graham asked. “Or was my invitation here a mistake?”

“Probably.” Natches spoke before his cousin could, a tight smile pulling at his lips as the icy emerald green of his gaze locked on Graham.

“Natches,” Timothy said, his tone chiding, “let’s not antagonize him. Graham’s a very important part of the plan and you know it.”

Those words sent a chill racing down Graham’s spine as he centered his gaze on the former agent and began to see why the Mackays had become such a force to be reckoned with after they’d aligned with this soft-spoken, often far-too-amused little bastard.

“And what part is that, Timothy? Sacrificial lamb, maybe?” Graham was barely holding his own anger in check now.

Timothy smiled. A deliberately wide smile as his hazel eyes gleamed with hard purpose. “Sacrificial lamb always seemed a waste of a good agent to me, Graham,” he stated. “No, you’ll not be the lamb being led to slaughter, nor will Lyrica.” His voice hardened. “We all have our strengths here, just as Lyrica has her weaknesses. One of those weaknesses being her inability to live with any of her cousins for more than a few days at a time without sparks flying. That will only distract all of us.”

Graham felt his gut tighten at the information.

“Then she won’t be staying with one of them?” Shock and dread began to fill him. “Bullshit. You can’t leave her in that damned apartment alone.” He turned to Dawg, noticing the other man was staring at the file lying in front of him as though he could set it aflame with his gaze alone.

“We have no intention of leaving her there alone,” Timothy assured him, pulling his gaze back.

Still smiling, the former agent slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks and watched Graham too closely, with far too much amusement.

“Then what is your intention?” Graham snarled.

“She’ll be staying with you,” Timothy answered, and shock tore through Graham’s mind. “The rest of us will be watching, maneuvering, and flushing the backer out into the open. Your only job is keeping her alive—”

“Unless it’s too late.” Tracker was suddenly moving. “She’s been hit. The Jeep was plowed into from a side road and she’s in a ravine. Angel can’t get her to answer and hasn’t gotten into the vehicle yet. Location’s being texted to you.”

Graham was moving behind him before the others could process their shock, racing from the side entrance of the abandoned business to the Viper he’d parked next to the black Corvette.

They tore out of their respective parking places almost simultaneously, but it was the Viper that hit the street first.

All Graham could hear as he loaded the location’s coordinates into the computer verbally were the words that Lyrica had been hit and the terror that began shredding his guts at the thought.

She’d been hit.

God help him if she hadn’t survived.

TWELVE

She was shaking.

Lyrica could feel the shudders. They originated inside her body and reverberated outward, trembling through muscle and bone until it was all she could do to keep her teeth from chattering.

Her Jeep was surprisingly intact. Whatever the hell kind of tank Dawg had turned it into during the years he’d driven it had saved her life.

“Ms. Mackay? Are you sure you’re okay?” The young woman who had helped Lyrica out of the Jeep and up the ravine to her own car stared back at her with the wildest damned green eyes. “I called for help. They’ll be here soon.”

Lyrica had never seen eyes quite like hers. They were aqua green, vivid and bright, and filled with concern as she ran her hands over Lyrica’s arms and legs and up her rib cage.

If she hadn’t recognized the experienced search for broken bones and internal bleeding, she would wonder if the other woman was copping a feel.

Lyrica focused on the woman’s face again, realizing she’d seen her before.

“You . . . you’re my neighbor.” She felt disoriented, her thoughts scattering easily.

“Yeah, I moved in about three months ago.” Sitting on her haunches, the other woman frowned back at her. “Are you certain you’re okay?” She held up fingers. “How many?”

Lyrica blinked back at her. “Really?”

“Give me a number, girlie,” she demanded with a quick grin and firm voice. “We don’t have all night here.”

“Two.” A tickle at the side of her head had her lifting her hand. She came away with a vivid swipe of scarlet against her fingers.

Blood.

Hell, she was bleeding.

“Is it bad?” she asked the woman. “If you called an ambulance, my family will probably beat them here. They don’t handle the sight of blood really well.”

At least, not the blood of those they cared for.

“It’s not bad,” she was assured.

The woman whisked her shirt off, revealing a minuscule white undershirt, the lace bra beneath it apparent as she took the black T-shirt and dabbed at the blood.