Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Just as she approaches the van, the man at the rear does something strange. His dips his head and turns so he can rub his chin on his shoulder, but I’m alarmed when I realize it’s a ruse to look at Barrett as she approaches. His eyes are hard, determined, and locked onto her. When he straightens and pivots to face her, I note he’s holding a wooden bat in his hand.
This lets me know he’s not stupid. He’s going for the quick knock out rather than using something slow acting like chloroform. Despite what’s portrayed in the movies, chloroform shouldn’t be the first choice to render someone unconscious.
Of interest, the man doesn’t seem to notice me running just a few yards behind her and off to the side a bit. It tells me his research isn’t any good, and he has no clue I’ve been assigned to protect her.
Barrett has no idea of the danger now a mere few feet away. The man takes a step toward the curb, the driver of the van watching in the rearview mirror briefly catches my attention. I reach my right hand across my stomach, snake it quickly under my t-shirt, and pull out my Ruger 9mm from my canvas chest holster.
It will do no good to warn Barrett. Her music is blaring, and she won’t hear me.
I don’t feel magnanimous enough to give the man warning. Besides, I don’t want him bolting away. I merely stop in my tracks, take a deep breath, and aim at his left thigh. When I slowly squeeze the trigger, I feel the gun jump. The man crumbles to the sidewalk, falling right in Barrett’s path.
The wounded man flopping right at her feet would be comical if it weren’t so fucking dangerous. She screams, scuttles sideways, and actually careens into the concrete railing of the porch steps to a house. The driver of the van puts it in gear and guns it, tires spinning wildly and throwing smoke before it peels out, leaving his fallen comrade behind.
I don’t waste any time, sprinting to the man now writhing on the sidewalk as he holds both hands to the bloody hole in his leg. My gun stays trained on him, but I spare a fleeting glance at Barrett. Wide-eyed, she gapes, taking it all in.
She pulls her wireless earbuds out, and they fall to the ground as she takes a tentative step toward us. I shake my head at her. “Call Kynan.”
Barrett pulls her phone out of her arm band. I’d programmed Kynan’s number as well as Bebe’s and Dozer’s in it.
“Not 9-1-1?” she asks hesitantly.
“No,” I reply calmly as I keep my eyes locked on the perp. They’ve probably already been called by an alarmed neighbor who heard the gunshot. “Kynan.”
She doesn’t question me, but immediately starts dialing. I’m vaguely aware of people coming out of their brownstones to huddle in robes on their front porch. But I don’t pay any attention since the man on the ground is screaming, “You fucking shot me, you asshole. Why?”
“Because I don’t take kindly to kidnappings,” I say calmly.
“Kidnappings?” the man screeches. “I’m here to move a bedroom set.”
“Oh yeah,” I reply sharply. “Then where did your partner go?”
“Probably got the fuck out of dodge once you started shooting,” he yells.
I’m not buying it. The wooden bat is laying in the street. I’d bet my life he’d been making a move for Barrett. No regrets on my decision to shoot first and ask questions later, but time is of the essence. The police aren’t going to take kindly to what I did.
“Kynan wants to talk to you,” Barrett says. She shuffles sideways toward me, making a wide berth around the man on the ground.
Clearly understanding I need to keep my gun trained on the man as I have no clue if he’s armed, she holds the phone up to my ear. I keep it short and simple. “It was an attempted kidnapping. I shot one in the leg. We need to take him into our custody so we can question him. Make it happen.”
“Got it,” Kynan replies without any hesitation, completely accepting my take on the situation.
When I nod at Barrett to pull the phone away, she scuttles backward to a safer distance. At that moment, the two Jameson staff in charge of the exterior of her house come running up. I assume they heard the gunshot.
I give them quick orders to search the man. Within moments, his hands are zip-tied behind his back. A kindly neighbor hands one of my men a kitchen towel, and it’s pressed to the perp’s wound, which appears to be non-lethal—thank fuck. I don’t want the asshole dying from blood loss before we can question him.
The next half hour is a cluster fuck. The Metro police arrive first. Clearly, they only see me—with a gun—and a wounded man on the ground. With slow movements, I quickly give up my weapon while explaining the situation. It doesn’t stop me from getting handcuffed, though, while the cops attend to the man’s wound. Barrett is escorted back to her house by my Jameson men with strict orders to stay inside with weapons drawn until I can get there.