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her lifting her chin into the air. “No,” she said coolly. She stood there, calmly, confidently, her eyes clear, not darkened by the fear that was so often in her eyes. She wore gym clothes, and in her hand she held a gym bag.
    Tracy had never looked lovelier to him in that instant, as she faced down her abusive husband.
    Pride burst through him, but it died as he saw the bruise on her cheek. “Vincent, you’re a dead man.”
    Vincent jumped at the sound of his voice, and Joel had the pleasure of seeing one of the most feared men in the United States pale. But then he sneered. “She has something that belongs to me, and until I get it, our deal is off.”
    Joel smiled, a chilling smile. Without looking at Tracy, he held out his hand as he stared at Vincent. “The deal is off. She’s leaving…with me. And you can go fuck yourself, Grainger.”
    As Tracy’s hand folded around his, they both watched Vincent’s face go ruddy with rage. “She’s my fucking wife, even if she is your whore!”
    Joel didn’t remember letting go of Tracy’s hand, or flying across the room. As he knocked Vincent to the floor, he growled, “Don’t you call her that. Not ever. She never sold herself—she did what she had to in order to keep you from hurting her. That’s not a whore. That’s a survivor.” Kneeling, he drew the gun from his back and placed the muzzle of the Browning at Vincent’s chin. “Which is more than I can say for you.”
    Vincent’s eyes widened, darting away, before meeting Joel’s eyes again. “You won’t,” he rasped.
    Dropping his voice to a gentle whisper, Joel said, “Believe me—there’s nothing I want more. Nothing I mean more. You don’t leave here alive…is that understood?”
    “Get away from him, Mr. Lockhart.”
    He cut his eyes to the side, keeping the muzzle of the gun right at Vincent’s chin, pressing until it pushed against flesh and met bone. When he saw Simmonds standing just behind Tracy, holding a gun to her head, fury arced through him. “You hurt her, old man, you die.”
    “Get away from Mr. Grainger, sir, and she won’t be hurt.”
    “Not yet,” Vincent rasped. Joel wanted to knock his teeth down his throat, but Tracy…she was more important.
    Slowly, Joel rose, stepping over Vincent’s body toward Tracy. “Come here, Tracy,” he said quietly.
    “No,” Simmonds said, shaking his head. “Put the gun down.”
    Joel laid it on the étagère shelf at his right, taking one small step away, still focusing on Simmonds. “Let her go now, Simmonds. You don’t want me angry.”
    Simmonds gave a stiff smile. “I can’t do that just yet, sir.”
    “No!” Tracy screamed, shoving backwards toward the older man standing behind her. Simmonds fell back, swearing, and Joel heard the thick, wet thud of bone hitting something solid. His eyes cut to Grainger to see the man on his feet, drawing his gun.
    Fuck…she had blinded Joel to the necessary things. His worry for her had made him forget, and now…
    But before Vincent could level the gun, there was a cracking sound. Vincent’s hand fell to his side, the gun falling from his fingers. Blood started to pour down the side of his face as he went to his knees, his eyes moving to Tracy.
    “You…bitch…” and then he hit the floor.
    There were shouts coming from all over the house as Joel turned to stare at Tracy. In her hand, she held a gun. The gym bag was open at her feet, but it wasn’t clothes in there.
    It was money—a lot of it.  The money her mother had left her, Joel guessed, but he didn't have that much time to dwell on it.
    Two of Grainger’s men burst in behind her and Joel dove for her, grabbing her and shoving her to the side. He slid behind the men and grabbed the closest, jerking his head. When he heard the snap of his neck, he let him go and turned to face the other one.
    Mick Forster wasn’t one of Grainger’s brighter men, but he fought like a machine. And he was brutal. Without looking at Tracy,