Free Storming His Heart by Marie Harte Page A

stocky man in his late forties, Floyd had a healthy appetite for life and food. He handed Rafe a bulky brown envelope.
    “This everything?” Rafe asked.
    “Yeah. That should put the bastard away for a long while.”
    Rafe glanced at the sheaf of trader’s notes and fingered a memory stick before sliding everything back into the envelope. “If this info pans out, your deal is good. You’ll still have to testify, but we’ll stash you somewhere safe in the meantime.”
    “Right. I’ve got to get out of here,” Floyd said nervously. He looked around before he left the car. Floyd reentered his vehicle just as another approached the lot.
    Rafe opened the door and yelled, “Get the hell out of here and don’t stop for anything.” Floyd took off like a shot. He drove right through the chain link fence and sped away.
    Rafe had two options—floor it and escape, or find out who the hell would be out this way on this particular night. He didn’t believe in coincidence. Rafe quickly got out of the car and kept it between him and the oncoming threat. He readied his gun, prepared to fire if need be. This new threat might be aimed at Floyd, and they couldn’t afford to blow the Higgins case. But the car didn’t even try to pursue Floyd. Rafe waited, his senses attuned to the danger. He kept low as shots rang out and swore when the car sagged. They’d shot out his tires.
    He reached out with his mind, and in that space of an instant— five men got out of the car, no weapons in sight. Their intent was to capture him. No one wanted to disappoint the boss. Succeed or be killed, and no question what they’d pick.
    Rafe broke from the vision as the car finally stopped. He peeked above the hood and watched as five large men emerged from the nondescript vehicle. They seemed organized, had no distinguishing marks, wore dark clothing and little jewelry that he could see. They’d come for him, not Floyd. This had to be tied to his shooting and Storm’s hit and run. Maybe he’d finally get some answers.
    One of the men spoke. “Rafe Savage, we need you to come with us. Our employer wants very much to see you again.” He was blond, tall and possibly the most dangerous of the bunch. He stood with a predatory stillness, his brown eyes alert in his expressionless face.
    Rafe stood and raised his weapon, gauging the reactions of the group. None of the men with the blond flinched. Interesting. “Who the fuck are you?”
    “I’m also to let you know that the minute you fire that weapon, Storm Buchanan will pay the price.”
    Rafe didn’t react. But fear blossomed inside him. “Who?”
    “The woman you intend to meet tonight at the Olde Pink House. We have men in place to take her the minute you don’t cooperate. Drop the gun.”
    How the hell did they know about his date? He’d arranged it from work on a secure phone. Had they tapped Storm’s line, maybe? Shit. This didn’t look good.
    Rafe laid the gun down on the hood of his car and stepped around it. From what he could tell, none of his opponents held a weapon. Between that and their orders to take him in unhurt, he might just be able to mow through these assholes and contact Storm right away.
    He stopped a few feet from the blond. “Who’s your employer? Why didn’t he simply ask me to meet him?”
    The man shook his head while the other four moved slowly to fan around them. “Our employer is a busy man. He’d rather we bring you to him.” The blond moved closer, almost within striking distance. “Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be.” He tried to grab Rafe. To the bastard’s surprise, Rafe threw him over his shoulder and caught the next closest man, taking him down as well.
    The others rushed Rafe as one. He struck one’s neck and punched another in the solar plexus, eliminating two of his opponents. The fifth man kicked his ribs and punched him in the face in lightning quick moves. Pain burst in Rafe’s jaw as he defended himself from a series