Page 37 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

“I should have married Conrad,” Tara mutters from her spot on the floor. “I could be having a great time somewhere in Europe, enjoying a shrimp cocktail right now. Not getting shot at in the middle of nowhere.”

“Who the fuck is Conrad?” I bark while aiming at the pursuing truck. A couple of guys have their heads out of the side windows, while another pops up through the sunroof. I should probably be thankful their driver is too busy to also shoot at us right now.

“Someone I dated in college. We were such a good match. His dad is an oil tycoon, so Conrad used to spoil me rotten. But we’d only been seeing each other for a short time before he proposed. I panicked and broke up with him. He still calls me occasionally, though.”

I grit my teeth and send another round at the pickup that’s dogging our every move. “Well, tell your oil tycoon brat that if he calls my wife again, the next call you’ll be getting is an invite to his funeral.”

“You can’t forbid me from speaking with my friends!”

My head snaps toward her. “Of course, I—”

A bullet whizzes past my face, missing by mere inches.

This damn woman will get me killed! I return my attention to the assholes chasing us, but the pickup has steered toward the middle of the road, escaping my line of fire.

Shit. I change the gun’s magazine, then slide to the opposite window, opening it to resume shooting.

“I thought you were left-handed,” Tara continues mumbling. “It fits with your personality. Left-handed people are known to be domineering.”

“Will. You. Stop. Talking?!”

“And easily distracted. Looks like the bad guys are gaining on us. You’re not doing a very good job here, you know?”

“There are three of them and”—out of the corner of my eye I notice her peeking over the edge of the back seat—“GET THE FUCK DOWN!”

I grab the back of her dress, pulling her away just as the car careens to the left. The force of the motion sends us both sprawling on the floor of the car, with me landing over her.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, woman?” I bark. “Want to get your pretty head blown off?”

“I’m worried about our situation!”

More bullets bombard us as Riggo changes lanes, trying to shake off the gunmen. I need to get back to laying down cover fire, but I can’t look away from Tara’s pouting lips. They’re luring me in again.

“Our situation is quite fine,” I grit out.

“No shit?” she bites back, her eyes glinting with defiance.

She’s so fucking sexy when she’s angry. I sweep away a strand of hair that’s fallen across her face, trying to fight this gravitational pull toward her. That resistance lasts all of two heartbeats before I surrender to the urge.

I slam my mouth to hers, seizing her tempting lips.

Maybe it’s our ordeal, or it could be just the taste of her, but my mind takes an unexpected trip off a cliff.

Nothing else seems to matter except having my wife pinned under me as she kisses me back.

The sounds of gunfire, the screech of tires, Riggo’s worried shouts…

Everything gets drowned out by Tara’s soft moans.

A piercing crack explodes above us. I immediately wrap my arms around Tara’s head as pieces of shattered glass from the rear window rain down. The car swerves to the left, sending us both bumping into the seats.

“We’re hit. Lost the driver-side back tire,” Riggo shouts. “I need to pull over before we spin out.”

Fucking great. I flick the lever beneath the seat to release the hidden compartment under the extendable footrest and grab an Uzi out of my reserve weapons stash.

“Do not leave the vehicle until I say so,” I growl while snapping the magazine into the Uzi. “You got that, Tara?”

“Yup,” she chokes out.

“Good.” Grabbing the back of her neck, I pull her toward me, pressing my mouth to hers for another quick kiss. Then, scrambling to my feet, I shove open the door and climb outside.

The pickup has stopped at an angle several car lengths behind us, and three assailants are gathered on the far side of the truck bed, spraying bullets in our direction. The fourth man is slumped, unmoving, in the front passenger seat.

I take cover beside the rear wheel and unleash burst after semiautomatic burst over the trunk of the car, aiming for the dicks’ heads poking up above the rim of their vehicle.

The morons didn’t have enough sense to make sure their ambush wouldn’t happen under the damn full moon, and now we’re engaged in a fucked-up game of a Whac-A-Mole.

My bullet finds the guy who is the furthest from me, and he jerks backward.

The other two quickly duck down. I keep firing as I spring up and run toward the pickup.

I’m halfway to my target, shooting at the guy hunched by the back bumper, when the other goon rounds the hood of the truck, his gun aimed at me.

A burning sensation explodes in my arm as the bullet catches me just below my shoulder.

Without breaking stride, I shift the Uzi to my right hand and face the shooter, just as he stumbles and falls to the ground.

Halle-fucking-lujah. Riggo finally came to his senses and decided to join the firefight.

I veer and continue toward the pickup while steady shots ring out at my back as Riggo provides cover fire.

Another goddamned miracle. The kid must have practiced because he usually can’t shoot for shit.

His technique would give a hysterical woman a run for her money, ’cause he typically sends bullets flying every which way.

As if quantity rather than accuracy is more important. I tsk . Fucking kids nowadays.

The last remaining shooter is crouching behind the truck when I round the front of the vehicle. It’s the driver, clutching a gun. With me raining bullets down on one side and Riggo doing the same on the other, the bastard’s got pinned with nowhere to flee.

“Throw down your weapon,” I bark, aiming at the center of his head. “Then come up. Slowly.”

The man doesn’t move, just glares at me with his brows scrunched into a deep V. I don’t think he understands what I said. Or maybe I’m not who he expected?

“The gun,” I repeat, pointing with my muzzle. “Throw it.”

His eyes dart to my right, where one of his dead comrades is splayed out on the ground.

The faint click of a cocking gun echoes on my blind side.

I pull the trigger, hitting the driver between his eyes, and spin around just as another gunshot pierces the early night.

The guy whom I assumed was dead is instead half-upright, clutching his bleeding neck with both his hands.

Blood is gushing like a geyser. A discarded gun is lying on the asphalt next to him.

Son of a bitch. An hour ago, the thought of Riggo saving my life would have been laughable.

“Nice shot,” I holler behind me, aiming at the dying man. The kid has definitely gotten better.

“Why, thank you, darling.”

My head snaps toward the truck’s rear end. Where my wife is standing in the middle of the road, pointing a gun at the now-dead shooter.