Page 2 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)

S ome guys had all the luck.

Got the girl of their dreams.

Didn’t live with the past haunting them.

Some guys were the heroes of the story, who saved the day and rode away on their white horses, the princess tucked behind them.

Some guys were Tate’s big brother Knox.

And then there were the other guys. The ones who couldn’t help but walk right into trouble, no matter how much they tried to dodge it.

This was Tate’s only thought—well, right after how in heaven’s name had Slava Gregorivich found him?

He didn’t have time to ask, however, because the gigantic Russian who had helped train Tate back in the day had slammed his iron fist into his gut, knocking Tate back from the open hotel room door and into the grand presidential suite of the Bellagio.

Tate tripped on the sofa going down from Slava’s shove and ker-thumped on the floor, nearly knocking the wind out of his body.

Slava took two giant steps and landed on top of him, one of his beefy, scarred hands square on Tate’s chest. The other hand reared back for a punch, and that’s when Tate’s mind went to Glo.

Gloria Jackson, his client, and more importantly the woman he just might be starting to love. She was in the next room, changing clothes to join him for pizza—oops, um, not the room service guy, honey—and maybe a late-night romantic walk under the fountains and along the strip.

He wanted to yell, Run, Glo! But that would only one, alert Slava to the collateral damage-slash-leverage should Tate not dispatch this guy successfully.

And two, bring Glo out of her room to the rumble happening in the thirty-sixth-floor suite.

And knowing Glo, she wouldn’t run. She’d do something heroically stupid and pick up a vase or a pillow or even use her petite body to try to take down Slava, head henchman of Yuri Malovich and protector of Yuri’s local entrepreneurial activities.

A man who had more blood on his hands than Tate, and a death threat to make good on.

No, Glo. Stay put.

Tate thought of Knox next, only because his bona fide heroic big brother was already down at the fountains on his romantic walk with the woman he loved.

By the time Slava’s fist came at him, Tate was wrangling with his thoughts about trouble and how he probably knew this was coming, if he were honest with himself.

Knew the minute he stepped back in Vegas that Slava and the old crew would find out about it and hunt him down.

Which was why his instincts, his reflexes kicked in and galvanized him to throw up his arm.

Deflect the killer punch.

And with his other hand, deliver one of his own, right to Slava’s jaw.

It knocked the big bear back, just enough for Tate to wiggle out, spin, and find his feet.

And this day had been going so well. He’d even felt a little like a real hero, catching a killer.

Okay, that had mostly been Knox, too, but Tate had shown up to cuff him and bring him to justice.

Score one for the good guys, and it confirmed for him that he could actually do the job he’d been hired for—keep the Yankee Belles, an all-girl band out of Nashville, safe.

Next on the list was finding the two bombers who had nearly killed them at an Nbr-X bull riding event a month ago in San Antonio, a couple of domestic terrorists who worked for an ultra-left-wing group of radicals.

Slava found his feet and charged Tate, tackling him back onto the top of a round glass table. The table shattered and Tate’s back stung with the shards of a thousand fragments of glass. But he got his knee up and flipped Slava over his head.

Freed himself from the jagged grip.

Yeah, that hurt. He wanted to shout, but a glance at the closed door kept it in.

Slava rolled off the sofa and landed on his feet, breathing hard. A smile tipped his lips. “Still the scrapper.”

Tate backed up, a glance at his weapon, still in his shoulder holster and hanging over one of the countertop chairs. He shouldn’t have let his guard down.

But his brain had been caught, painfully so, on Glo and that dangerous song she’d sung tonight. The one that had made him throw away caution and kiss her.

Oh, how he’d kissed her. Like he might be a man with second chances.

A man who could be the hero.

Probably his first mistake—thinking that a guy like him might escape his storyline.

Tate had been wooed by the Belles from the moment he’d met them—right after the bombing, when his brother was frantic to find the girl he’d saved.

But even before then, when he watched them perform from the wings of the arena where he was working security, he knew they possessed a magic.

Their voices, their sound had woven into his soul, making him feel alive, free, and new.

As if he didn’t have chains of regret wrapped around his throat, digging into his chest.

Then the bomb had gone off, terrifying everyone. Thankfully, no one innocent had died, but it left the band shaken, and of course he’d taken them on as clients.

If he were honest, he saw a chance to be a champion. Someone’s hero.

Glo’s hero.

She’d hired him because she’d been afraid—not for herself but for her bandmate Kelsey, who suffered from panic attacks.

It was a simple gig that got more complicated when he discovered Kelsey’s fears were founded—a man she’d put in prison was out and on her trail.

Add to that the very real bombers who had issued death threats to Glo’s mother, Senator Reba Jackson, and the job went from babysitting to close and personal protection.

Very close, very personal because Glo’s smile, her teasing, and even her bravery had dug under his skin, found his bones, and edged dangerously close to his heart.

And then came tonight’s song. The hit single about loving and losing and trying again.

She…don’t wanna try,

It’s too hard to fall for another guy.

But you don’t know if you don’t start

So wait…for one true heart…one true heart…

Maybe his wait was over.

Slava kicked the table aside and advanced on him. “Yuri died in prison,” he said, giving an update. “But the Bratva remembers.”

Tate put up his hands. “He killed Raquel. What did you want from me?”

Slava threw his punch. Tate blocked it. Slava rebounded on the other side, and Tate blocked that, too, then slammed the edge of his hand into Slava’s throat.

Slava stepped back, gagging, and Tate sent his foot into his chest.

Slava flew back onto the sofa.

Tate should grab Glo and run. He was turning toward her room when?—

“Loyalty,” Slava growled, his voice gravelly. “You pledged your life to the Bratva.”

That spun Tate. “Are you kidding me? The things I did for Yuri out of loyalty make me sick!”

“You went to the FBI.” Slava got up, his dark eyes flashing.

“They came to me . And I turned them down !” A stupid, stupid decision. But that’s what loyalty got him—betrayal, a broken heart, and the death of the woman he loved.

He couldn’t let that happen again.

He advanced on Slava. “Yuri should have trusted me.” He grabbed Slava around the waist, hooking his foot behind his leg. The big man went down, his arm around Tate’s neck.

Tate landed on top of him just as Slava clubbed him in the ribs. The pain woofed through him, thick and bracing, and he knew he’d probably injured a few vital organs. Especially when the second punch landed in the same area.

Slava’s arm noosed his neck, but Tate managed to get a fist into the big man’s jaw. His hold loosed, and Tate broke free and rolled off, gritting his teeth.

Bad move. Slava rolled too, now on top of him, and grabbed his shirt. Tate put a hand on his wrist, but Slava’s fist found his face, and a white-hot flash of pain exploded as his nose broke. The room turned woozy, the pain cascading over him.

Blood gushed, but the smell of it galvanized Tate, and he roared through the haze and kneed Slava. Clipped him in the soft parts.

Slava cursed, and Tate battered his fist into his face enough to dislodge the Russian.

Tate rolled over onto his knees, scrambling away.

He just had to get his head clear. He’d fought Slava before—a few times, although never with his life—and Glo’s—at stake.

He knew exactly who had tracked Raquel down that night, who had made her suffer, who had left her broken body for Tate to find when he returned home.

Slava took his job very seriously.

The Russian grunted, and Tate glanced at him just in time to see the man sling a vase at him. It slammed against Tate’s hard head, shattered, and Tate went down, the room spinning.

Get up. Get… up.

And oddly, it wasn’t Glo or even Knox or even some key figure from his past in his head—his deceased father or Major Jaster, his Ranger instructor—but the random, misplaced voice of a twelve-year-old.

What was Jammas doing, rising from the dead now?

Get up!

For a second, Tate was back in Afghanistan, sand in his eyes, choking on smoke, Jammas’s hands tugging on his body armor.

Get up!

He staggered to his feet just as a lamp crashed down in his shadow. But Slava was off-balance, and Tate kicked him, sent the man spinning.

He might not win this. The thought cycled through Tate even as he lunged for his gun. The chair toppled over, and the holster went spinning across the floor. Tate went after it, but Slava grabbed his shirt and hauled him up, shoving him against the bar.

Slava’s bearish two-handed grip clamped around Tate’s neck, a hint of vodka on his breath as he leaned close to Tate. “In the end, she cursed your name.”

Yeah, well, he did too…too often.

Tate ducked his chin and grabbed Slava’s elbows, bearing down to dislodge the grip, his air trickling down to a sip. He hammered his fist into the big man’s ribs, but Slava was a bull, unmoving.

Tate’s vision turned gray, splotchy.

Sweet Glo’s voice found his ears, the vision of her onstage flashing behind his eyes. Dressed in black, her dress short to show off those amazing legs, her eyes closed, the lights turning her hair a white-gold. So breathtaking, his heart had nearly stopped in his chest.