THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

”
    Angel silently pleaded for him to understand, glad that Zane had the upper hand and Vic had come alone. “Thanks for the ride. I’m sorry.”
    She turned and ran.
     
    Chapter 5
     
    “Who are you?”  Zane loosened his grip enough to let the mugger speak. He had a Keltec .32 stuffed in his boot, but hadn’t taken the time to pull it out when he’d had the opening to grab this guy in a chokehold. His captive reeked of cigarette stench and heavy aftershave.
    How did this goon know Angel? 
    The stocky bruiser, a head shorter than Zane, appeared neither threatened nor concerned. “Take your hands off of me, you fool.” 
    Shouldn’t he be concerned since I have the clear advantage? Of course, back in his special ops day, Zane had known guys on the team who were much shorter than him that he never wanted as an enemy. Silent and deadly.
    But this guy was nothing more than a thug.
    Zane ground his teeth at the absurdity of all this. Angel might have done him a favor by not calling the police. High Vision had made it clear they did not tolerate unnecessary media attention, regardless of the reason. They had enough bad media with PETA groups.
    And the DEA wouldn’t be any happier to see Zane’s face in the news either.
    No problem. He preferred a low profile for his own reasons.
    His chin-high captive warned, “You’ve got maybe ten seconds to let me go.” He sounded annoyed and impatient, not the least intimidated.
    The idea of turning this scumbag loose was a piss poor option. Amused by the guy’s show of bravado, Zane started to ask, “Or what, Shorty?” when he heard the distinctive “click” of a gun hammer cocked next to his ear.
    “Turn him loose,” a baritone voice ordered.
    Zane dropped his arms and backed away, hands in the air.
    Smoothing back his slick black hair, the cocky mugger jerked away from Zane’s grasp. He spun around and straightened his Indigo silk suit with a look of pure hatred on his dark, Mediterranean face. He threw a short chin jerk as some signal to his gun-toting partner.
    “Turn around,” the partner demanded. The tap of cool metal on Zane’s cheek accompanied the terse order.
    Zane shifted slowly with deliberate movements to face the owner of the suppressed 9mm Smith and Wesson pointed at his head . A faint light cast by the distant halogens outlined the mahogany-skinned gunman’s stern features. He stood inch for inch as tall as Zane and outweighed him by twenty pounds that looked put on by steroids. The mountainous body filled out a dark, tailored suit no CEO would refuse to hang in his closet.
    That suppressor was an expensive toy. These two were high-priced hired guns. What had Angel gotten mixed up in? Was she some mob leader’s babe?
    “Where’d she go?” Shorty asked, evidently the one in charge.
    Zane thanked his Air Force Special Ops training for being able to read people and adapt at lightning speed. He affected his best rendition of a confused look accompanied by good old boy repertoire.
    “Hey, man, I don’t even know the broad. I take off with some maniac driving down the fuckin’ runway, get up to ten thousand feet and she climbs out of the cargo hold. Says some guy doesn’t want to let her go. Must be a hell of a lover’s quarrel. She belong to one of you?”
    The two best-dressed henchmen in Jacksonville exchanged unreadable looks.
    But Zane had picked up just enough hesitation on their parts – combined with the suppressor on the weapon – to figure out these guys were expected to operate below the radar, draw no attention. Or he’d be dead right now.
    He continued, “I don’t fly passenger charter. She said she’d pay me to drop her off here for a little vacation, but she didn’t flash any cash. You got an address where I can send a bill? I’ve got to make this month’s lease payment.”
    Shorty stepped up close. An ugly smirk on his face matched the evil coffee-bean eyes. He flipped a switchblade open, the sharp tip nicking the underside of Zane’s chin.
    Several possible reactions came to Zane. Snatching away that knife and shoving it into Shorty’s throat while disarming his sidekick topped the list. But that would leave a body to explain and blow his good old boy routine.
    “Listen closely,” Shorty warned. “You mention this little event to anyone and we’ll be back to see you. And if you ever touch me again, I’ll cut off your hands.”  He snapped the knife shut, threw a “let’s go” head jerk at his