Inherited Threat. Jane M. Choate

and Asolo hiking boots.

      She turned her attention away from his clothes to the man himself. A bladed nose, sharp cheekbones and narrow-set eyes hinted of Native American ancestry. It wouldn’t be surprising. Many people in the South bore a trace or more of Cherokee blood. All in all, it made for a compelling face.

      His features were too rough-hewed, his eyes too full of determination for the bland good looks that found favor in the glossies and online e-zines. No, Mace Ransom would never be mistaken for a movie star or a media idol.

      He was closemouthed but could ask questions when he wanted to know something. Even if she hadn’t known he was an ex-Ranger, she’d have made him as spec-ops. It was there in the smoke-colored eyes that missed nothing, in the ramrod posture with the resolutely set shoulders.

      His bearing shouted military. She liked the reassurance of that, the familiarity of it. Everything about him was hard. Hard eyes. Hard hands. Hard driven. She’d been around such men for the last nine years of her life. They didn’t give in and they didn’t give up. For that, she was grateful.

      The scar on his cheek didn’t repel her. She’d seen worse. Far worse. Along with a day’s growth of beard that roughened his jawline, it added to the dark and dangerous appeal of the man. She bore her own share of scars, some visible, others not. Stars and scars, one of the men in her unit had used to describe spec-ops soldiers.

      There was a faint indentation on his chin that might have been a dimple if his lips were to curve in a smile, but the harsh lines bracketing his mouth told their own story, that of a man who rarely if ever smiled. Had life in the Rangers turned him bitter and angry or was there another explanation for the dark cast to his face?

      He bore not a lick of the gloss that had characterized her onetime fiancé, though he had been military, too. Jeffrey had been all spit and polish on the outside. It was a pity that he’d been so ordinary on the inside. Laurel pushed memories from her mind of the man who hadn’t been able to handle her making Ranger when he’d washed out.

      Unless she missed her guess, there was evidence of a deeper kind of pain in Mace Ransom, the kind that shadowed the heart and the soul. She saw it in the darkening of his eyes when he turned her way and the tight control with which he held himself. At the same time, she detected a steady kind of valor in his eyes, the kind that said he’d do what was right, regardless of the cost to himself.

      Whatever put the pain in his eyes, it was not her problem. Or her business.

      She wasn’t there to psychoanalyze the S&J agent. She needed his help. Ever since the explosion that had injured her shoulder, she had been functioning at half speed. She needed to step up her game.

      “If I didn’t say it already, thanks. For coming. For being here.”

      “No need. I go where the job takes me.”

      Okay. That put her in her place. She was an assignment. “Still, I appreciate it. I’ve handled myself in plenty of tough situations, but this has me rattled.”

      As if sensing her distress, Sammy nudged her neck with his nose. She reached back to scratch his muzzle. “It’s okay,” she murmured. His wet tongue laved her cheek, the small gesture of affection warming her.

      “He’s a good animal,” the man at her side observed.

      She let her nod answer for her, afraid that her voice would break if she said that Sammy was far more than that.

      She returned to her study of the bodyguard. He deserved to know what he was up against. “The tangos on my tail belong to the Collective.”

      “I’ve been briefed.” His face hardened, along with his voice.

      “Just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”

      “Gotcha. The Collective doesn’t play nice with others.”

      “No kidding? I think they murdered my mother.” She left it at that. There’d be time enough later to go into details, that Bernice’s throat had been slashed, nearly to the bone.

      Sammy nudged her with his nose.

      “Do you need to go out?” The shepherd gave a sharp bark, and she turned to Mace. “Can we stop?”

      He pulled to the side of the road. “Make it quick. Unless I’m wrong, there’ll be others on your tail besides those two idiots back there.”

      She hopped out of the truck, let Sammy out. He spent a minute sniffing the grass before settling down to business.

      “Good boy.” She patted her leg. “I wish we could let him run,” she said as Mace joined them. “He’s not used to being cooped up.”

      “Sorry. We’ve got to keep moving.”

      His words triggered a nasty memory. While she’d been deployed in Afghanistan, her unit had been assigned to take down a munitions dump. They’d succeeded but had taken fire, leaving a couple of men wounded, which had slowed them down. A small band of the enemy had managed to escape into the hills and then proceeded to track Laurel and her men relentlessly, intent on revenge. They had lost a man in the ensuing fight.

      “Believe me, I know.”

      * * *

      Mace didn’t fool himself into thinking that they were home free. There were bound to be others tailing his newest client.

      He wasn’t often taken by surprise, but Laurel Landry had managed to do just that. Instead of the hard-edged female Ranger he’d expected, he saw a beautiful woman with auburn hair, golden eyes and a soft mouth.

      Not that she was soft. She handled herself like the professional soldier she was.

      It was that dichotomy that intrigued him.

      The big shepherd stayed at her side. Having only three legs didn’t lessen the fierce protectiveness he displayed when Mace made to help Laurel back in the truck. A sharp woof told Mace to back off.

      “Sorry,” Laurel said. “Sammy’s appointed himself my guardian.” She knelt and wrapped her arms around the dog’s big neck. “It’s okay. He’s a friend.” She gestured for Mace to put out his hand to Sammy, who sniffed it. “Friend.”

      “At the risk of offending Sammy, can I give you a hand?” Mace had noticed she favored her right shoulder.

      “Sure.”

      “What happened to your shoulder?” he asked as she winced when reaching for her seat belt.

      “I took shrapnel from an IED.” When she didn’t say anything more, he took the hint to back off from further questions.

      On their way again, they talked little except to exchange ideas for the best route to Atlanta. He gave the lady credit for keeping conversation to a minimum. Small talk was not part of his skill set. It was the same for most of the soldiers in spec-ops. You want polite chitchat, you join a ladies’ garden society. You want results, you get yourself a Ranger.

      He eyed the Sig Sauer P226 that showed beneath her jacket. “Nice toy you got there.”

      “Thanks.” She glanced at the Glock 17 he carried in a shoulder holster. “Same goes.”

      “It does the job.”

      Right now the job meant getting the client out of harm’s way. He had no doubt that other men would pick up their tail quickly enough. With that in mind, he sifted through the choices. Keep to the back roads, hoping to fly under the radar. Or hit the freeway with the idea of losing themselves in the mix of vehicles heading east. Each came with a risk.

      Part of his Ranger training was evaluating risks. A county road or the freeway? A county road was less likely to be patrolled by the tangos. On the other hand, there was safety in being able to lose themselves in the hundreds of vehicles that filled the freeway like an army of ants.

      The freeway it was.

      He took the ramp and merged into the