Broken Honor by Tonya Burrows Read Free Book Online Page B

inside, and his heart clenched.
    I’m here, Mara. Hang on just a bit longer.
    He tested the door. Locked. Because of course it was.
    The distinct sound of a plane decelerating overhead caught his attention, and he squinted toward the sky. Whomever Fuckhead had been waiting for was only minutes away, and he’d prefer to be long gone with Mara by his side before that plane touched down.
    Now or never.
    Keeping to the shadows of the alley, he raced toward the front of the building, firearm up and ready. The main hangar door was open, the lights on, and he sensed movement inside. He sucked in a breath to calm the adrenaline-fueled jitters in his gut, then swung into the opening. The hangar was filled with three planes in various states of disrepair, the internal mechanics spread out on the concrete floor as if the planes had been gutted for parts. And there on the floor in the middle of it all was Mara, struggling against the zip ties holding her wrists, tears streaming over her flushed cheeks and a duct-tape gag.
    Their eyes met, and the relief filtering through hers ignited a fragile spark of hope that maybe he hadn’t fubar’d things with her yet—a spark he ruthlessly squashed. At this point she’d be relieved to see Elvis walk through that door—anyone but her attacker. She made a muffled sound behind her gag, and he pressed a finger to his lips. She nodded.
    “Where he is?” he mouthed.
    She shrugged, shook her head.
    Quinn crouched in front of her. “All right. Let’s get you out of here. We have to move fast. Can you walk?”
    She lifted her feet to show they were also bound with a zip tie.
    Rage sent fire roaring through his veins, and he clenched his teeth against it. He wanted to punch something. Or someone. Preferably the fuckhead who’d abducted her. He did another quick scan of the hangar, then set his gun down and reached into his boot for the knife he’d slid in there before leaving the stolen truck. He bent to saw through the tie—
    Mara’s shout from behind her gag was the only warning he had of an impending attack. He whirled, knife raised, and Fuckhead’s fist glanced off his jaw. The blade flew from his hand, clattering to the floor somewhere nearby. He saw white. His knees buckled and he didn’t catch himself soon enough to stop the fall. He was going down one way or another, but he couldn’t stay down or he’d end up dead. That punch had been calculated to KO him. Truthfully, it was a wonder it hadn’t.
    Rattled from the blow, he clumsily rolled into the fall, sprang back to his feet behind Fuckhead, and snaked an arm around his windpipe, squeezing tight. The guy grunted, and sweat soaked through his balaclava as he struggled for oxygen.
    Quinn was sweating, too, breathing harder than he should have been. Choking someone out was nothing, a cakewalk, and yet his vision started to tunnel on him, and for one horrifying second, he thought he was going to pass out himself. His grip loosened enough on Fuckhead’s windpipe that the guy was able to suck in a rejuvenating breath.
    Shit. A quick, clean knockout wasn’t going to be possible now.
    Quinn blinked away the fuzzy gray dots clouding his vision and redoubled his grip, but the guy was huge, a good three inches taller and carrying an extra thirty pounds of muscle, and he’d tensed up his neck like a steel beam. He reared back, hitting Quinn’s jaw with the top of his head.
    Quinn released the chokehold and staggered. Barely had a chance to suck in a breath to regroup before Fuckhead made like a ram, plowing him in the stomach, and the fight was back on. Kicks and punches flew, Quinn battling for each blow he landed. Fuckhead fought like a machine and was quick for his large size. A punch glanced off Quinn’s side, too close to his kidney for comfort.
    Fuck this. The guy wanted dirty, Quinn would give him dirty.
    Shutting off higher thought, he went into survival mode, all brutal action and reaction. He brought his knee up and connected