Free Impossible End (Unchecked Book 3) by Sybil Bartel Page B

years. Hispanic, muscled, too non-descript to be anything but purposeful and they always traveled in pairs. But I’d found out this past week what Shorty was capable of, and he was a hundred times more dangerous than the others. He nudged the taller one.
    “Depends on what, G.I. Joe?” Shorty smirked.
    The marine’s hand dropped from the door and closed over mine. As he squeezed, my keys dug into my palm.
    The act didn’t go unnoticed by Shorty. His forced humor instantly disappeared and his face twisted with venom. “So it’s like that, huh?” he spat out.
    “Step back,” the marine warned as he slowly took my keys from my hand.
    “Or what?” Shorty asked, casually lifting the front of his shirt a few inches to reveal a gun tucked in his waistband. “You’ll bench press me?” He grinned eerily.
    The marine didn’t blink. “You won’t be alive to know what I did to you.”
    A cold, sick dread rose like bile in my throat.
    Shorty turned to me. “You even know this joker, girl? Cuz I ain’t seen him before and we both know I know you real good.”
    I opened my mouth to tell him where to shove it when my hand was squeezed hard in warning. I snapped my mouth shut and the marine took a step forward, shoving me behind him.
    “Disrespect her again and it’ll be the last thing you do.”
    Shorty shook his head. “Hope he was worth it, girl.” He reached for the gun.
    Faster than I could scream, the marine moved. His left arm shot out, elbow first, as his right hand grabbed Shorty’s gun. With a sickening crunch, the tall one’s face erupted with spurting blood, his eyes rolled back in his head and his arms went limp. Before his knees even buckled, the marine had twisted Shorty’s arm and jammed the barrel of the gun back into his stomach.
    The tall one hit the pavement face-first with a nauseating thud as the marine clamped his left hand down on Shorty’s throat. Three successive pops sounded and Shorty let out a choked howl as his broken hold went slack.
    “Get in the car, Layna,” the marine said calmly.
    I stared at the bloody carnage on the ground.
    “Layna.”
    I looked up. Shorty’s good hand was futilely clawing at the marine’s death grip on his throat.
    The marine spared me a glance. “Passenger side, get in.”
    I snapped out of my stupor and scrambled around the car. Still pointing the gun at Shorty, the marine let go of his throat and executed a merciless knife strike to the side of his neck. Shorty crumpled to the ground.
    Hands shaking, I tried twice before I got the car door open and fell into the seat. Thirty seconds later we were doing seventy in a forty-five zone, putting distance between us and them.
    The marine leaned forward, tucked the gun in his back waistband, and scanned the rearview mirrors. “Are there more?”
    There were always more. I concentrated on breathing. “No.” Jesus, were they dead?
    He glanced at me. “You’re lying. Why?”
    For some reason, having him call me on my bullshit was calming—like a-syringe-full-of-Valium calming. My breathing evened out and I looked out the window. I should’ve been taking stock, figuring out how to lose the marine, but I wasn’t. I was drowning in the surreal feeling of not being alone and wondering why he’d protected me with no questions asked. I fixated on his superhuman soldier skills and a dangerous sense of relief washed over me. I leaned back in the seat. “Did you kill them?”
    “No.”
    Did I believe him? “The tall one didn’t look like he was breathing.” Facedown, blood everywhere, he’d stopped moving after a twitch and a gurgling sputter.
    “I broke his nose and some surrounding facial bones and knocked him unconscious. He’s not dead but he’ll need surgery,” he said matter-of-factly.
    I swallowed. “And Shorty?”
    “Unconscious, broken wrist, broken hand.”
    I didn’t say anything. I was trying to figure out if I was glad or mad.
    “Should I have killed them?”
    I whipped around in my