More from the vault, circa 2000/2002. Apparently I once loved these 1,000 word challenges.

It was supposed to be a simple FTA pick-up, but you'd think that by now I'd know better. I'd been doing this for more than two years, and I could count the number of times things had been simple on one hand.

It was supposed to be simple and he wasn't supposed to be armed, I thought, crouched down between my truck and a 10' chain link fence at the end of a stinking alley. He was supposed to be a harmless older gentleman who liked to supplement his Social Security checks by betting on the ponies, but he made the mistake of meeting his bookie at the same time the police were arresting said bookie. A quick arrest, a relatively small bail made by my cousin and employer Vinnie. If he'd shown up for his hearing, the judge would probably have scowled at him and slapped him with a minor fine. But that would have been simple.

His file said nothing about guns or gun permit, but that was definitely him at the open end of the alley, firing toward me. No doubt there. Another bullet whizzed past my head, encouraging me to try and duck my head even lower, and hit the brick wall behind me, splattering me with stinging chips of brick. I'd lost count of how many rounds he'd fired already, but I knew it was both a) more than a full magazine and b) more than anyone shooting at me should really be allowed to have.

There really wasn't much for me to do, hunkered down like this. He had to run out of ammo eventually. Right? Besides, he'd fired off so many rounds so far that even if someone wasn't motivated to call Trenton's Finest to come rescue me, concerned citizens from all over Trenton would be showing up to start picking up brass shell casings sometime soon. We might not believe in recycling in Trenton, but we definitely believe in reloading.

I shifted and raised my head, intending to peer over my truck when the shooting restarted, this time without a pause. Automatic weapons. Great. Where do they get this stuff? The police didn't even have it. Ranger probably did. Maybe I could ask him-

A large hand grabbed the front of my shirt and I found myself jerked behind a solid, dark, familiar presence as he shielded my body with his, his back to the source of bullets. Speak of the Man in Black... Before I could get my heart going again, I heard a loud thud, followed by an urk, a splat and a clatter. I was trying to figure out what those noises meant, when I noticed I didn't hear gunfire anymore.

I popped up, I grabbed my husband by the jacket and began shaking him. "What are you doing?! Are you trying to get yourself killed?! What were you thinking?!"

"Me? Trying to get myself killed? I'm not the one who started a firefight in a blind alley!" His voice had started raised but had reached thunderous by the last few words.

I'd never heard Ranger at full volume before, and apparently his lung muscles were as developed as his other muscles. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tank, Bobby and Lester, as one, take several giant steps backward. My back was already against the truck, so I had no where to go but forward.

So I took those steps forward and stood toe to toe with him. I can scream with the best of them. "At least I am wearing a fucking vest!" I tugged one of the straps so he could see it under my shirt. "You," I said, slapping his chest, knowing there was no way I could actually hurt him, "aren't! I was hiding behind the truck. You were the one running through the line of fire!"

He put the heels of both of his hands against his forehead and leaned back against my truck, his head hitting the roof with a very audible thunk.

I narrowed my eyes at him and tapped my foot. "You're gonna have to make this up to me."

"I have to make it up to you?" I nodded. He began to grin. 'So, sex or chocolate?"

I blew out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "What kind of chocolate?"

He smiled wider. "Don't you want to know what kind of sex before you decide?"

I grabbed the front of his shirt. "How about both – sex and chocolate?"

"I can probably arrange that." We stared at each other for a moment. Our voices were pitched back to normal, every-day, reasonable tones.

"So," I said, clearing my throat and letting go of his shirt, "what time you free?"

He shrugged. "The usual. Around 9. You?"

"Two more FTAs to run down, then I'm free."

He scowled at me again. "You carrying?" I just looked at him. He swore under his breath, something in Spanish, which included the word " obstinada," which I knew meant "stubborn woman," and then pulled a small semi-automatic from his ankle holster and held it out to me, butt first, chamber open. I just looked at it. He smiled, a lopsided, very sexy smile, and said the phrase guaranteed to make me take the gun. "I'll make it tiramisu from Rossini's."

I laughed and took the gun, tucking it into my jacket pocket. He shook his head and headed back to his SUV.

I let him get a step or two away. "Ranger," I said, my voice soft. He stopped and half-turned to face me. I grabbed his jacket with both hands, pulled him towards me and kissed him hard and quick. I let go of him and stepped back.

He walked to his truck, and I heard Tank laugh at him. "You bribe your woman with chocolate?

"And sex," Ranger said, his voice low and serious, "don't forget the sex."