his opponent’s ferocity, he added, for effect only and knowing Jelly knew him well enough to recognize mendacity when he heard it, “Unless she leaves you no choice.”
“Just make a wrong move,” Jelly told her.
As Jason moved his captured arm experimentally, needles of pain shot toward his shoulder, making him grimace.
“Uh, you want to let go of the wrist?” he asked her.
She looked at him. He’d seen caged pit bulls with kinder eyes.
“How about you let go of me first?” she countered.
He did, and she did.
“Sit up,” Jelly ordered.
Lying flat on his back now with her straddling his hips, both of thembreathing hard in the aftermath of the battle, Jason had a groundhog’s eye view as her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed. She was, he felt, weighing the possibility of going for Jelly’s gun.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned her, and she flashed him a look that should have pulverized his eyeballs even as Jelly, never slow on the uptake, backed off a pace.
“Get off him,” Jelly said, his gun trained on her threateningly. “Stand up.”
Unlike Jason, who had nothing against cops when they weren’t trying to chop him to death or arrest him or otherwise interfere with him personally, Jelly actively disliked cops on principle. Also, Jelly was a confirmed misogynist. As a consequence, Jason saw no trace of consideration for his opponent’s profession or gender in Jelly’s demeanor. Given enough provocation, and without Jason to serve as a deterrent, Jelly couldn’t be trusted not to shoot her. Later, Jelly might tease him about being wrestled to a draw by a woman, but for now, Jelly’s sense of humor, like his sense of proportion and any leanings toward compassion he might possess, were on hold. All he wanted to do was get out of there with the money.
Amen to that. It was all about the money. But Jason wasn’t about to let Jelly shoot somebody just because she happened to be a woman and a cop and in their way.
“Easy. No harm done,” Jason said as a reminder to Jelly, who grunted derisively. In response to Jelly’s reinforcing gesture with the gun, the cop eased herself off Jason, moving with obvious reluctance. As she rose slowly and carefully to her full height, Jason rolled to his feet himself, feeling a little the worse for wear but not caring to have either of the others know it. His arm tingled like it was asleep, his face was still half numb from that killer chop to his cheekbone, and he could feel at least half a dozen bruises forming elsewhere. His adversary was looking slightly the worse for wear, too. Her hair—reddish-brown, thick, wavyhair that reached the middle of her back—had come loose from those schoolgirl braids to straggle wildly over half her face, which seemed to be naturally pale but was at the moment flushed pink from their tussle. Her eyes were big and brown and flashed angrily beneath black slashes of brows as she pushed the hair back out of her way with one hand. She had a high-cheekboned, triangle-shaped face with a pointed chin. Slim, delicate nose. A wide mouth, currently tight-lipped. She wasn’t beautiful, but with her lithe build and small, firm breasts jutting out at him through the barely there layer of her tank top, she was wicked sexy. A hot cop with the chops to almost take him out: it would have been a near-irresistible combination if he’d had time to pursue it.
Unfortunately, he didn’t. They were on the clock. The operation had been timed for five minutes, in and out. A quick glance at his watch confirmed it: they were already a minute over. Outside in the van, Tina would be getting antsy.
“Here.” Jelly passed him the cop’s gun. As Jason took it, she gave him a black look. Then her eyes flickered past him, fixed on something, and widened.
“You got trouble, tough guy. Your insurance policy just expired,” she said. Then she smiled.
That smile was gloating enough to make Jason look where she was looking. It was only as