Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 18476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 92(@200wpm)___ 74(@250wpm)___ 62(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 18476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 92(@200wpm)___ 74(@250wpm)___ 62(@300wpm)
Nor does being damn near jammed in the eyes by the branches of the outdoor decorative Christmas trees.
The only thing that matters right now is rescuing that screaming, squirming, scared little boy.
And good on him for making so much noise.
Shame on everyone fucking else for just assuming they know why.
Arriving at the very back of the old wooden sleigh display, I position myself to use it for the necessary coverage caused by the kidnapper repeatedly glancing over his shoulder to ensure that he’s no longer being followed.
But he is.
Having him believe he’s not is what gives me the upper hand.
The control.
I intensely continue to track his movements noting the way his steps are starting to sag as if hauling around the weight of the kid is beginning to wear on him. Despite the darkness that would be easier for him to fade off into, the individual gradually wanders back towards the well-lit building. Avoids areas directly in a camera’s view. Lingers around the collection of nutcrackers when he thinks security is creeping by. The fact that he doesn’t know the difference between a mall security vehicle and a random white sedan indicates this guy isn’t a professional.
This very well may be his first job.
And his last.
The kidnapper impatiently begins to pace along the edge of curb, grumbling at the crying child, prompting me to take advantage of his stationary location by pulling out my holstered pistol and aiming it at the back of his lower left calf.
Delivering one shot to the area will be enough to wound him without risking substantial blood loss.
Afterall, I don’t need him bleeding out.
That would mean he wouldn’t be able to give me the answers I need to prevent his team – or whoever it is he’s working for – from doing this again.
And right underneath rescuing the kid, lies making sure this shit doesn’t happen to any others.
All of a sudden, a black Mercedes van creeps up, ceasing his nervous patrolling, which results in me instantly changing tactics.
Retraining my weapon.
Preparing to disarm two threats back-to-back versus just the one.
The attacker takes a single step closer to the vehicle wordlessly informing me it’s how he plans to escape, a declaration that guides my finger to squeeze the trigger twice in rapid succession. Startled by the sounds as much as the back end of the van collapsing to one side, the kidnapper thoughtlessly drops the kid at the same time he whips around to see where the shots came from. I quickly fire a round into his tibia, stand to pump two more into the front tire on the same side, and then unleash another two into the shoulder blade and back leg of the getaway driver who attempts to flee. In spite of seeing him fall forward face first, I continue to oscillate my weapon between the pair of men, prepared to further disarm them if necessary.
Screams from surrounding shoppers in the parking lot aren’t any more surprising than the current ringing in my ears due to my lack of protection, yet I know what I have to do.
I have to keep my volume lower than I think it is.
I have to keep my tone even.
Calm.
Clear of any animosity because I need the little guy who can’t be much older than my girls to trust me.
That realization threatens to have me not only shifting to a harsher timbre but manically unloading my magazine’s remains into the individual that’s holding his leg while rolling on the sidewalk back and forth as he howls in agony.
At least the disruption in normal hearing mutes his bitch screams a bit.
Cautiously approaching the kidnapper occurs in tandem with carefully surveying the scene, needing to spot where the child scurried away to.
If he left the situation, then so will I.
Yeah, getting this man to the authorities is important, but not nearly as important as getting the kiddo back to his mother.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a lower tree branch twitch, an action that reveals to me his cloaked location and allows a small sigh of relief to escape. Upon my arrival at the attacker, I plant one foot firmly on his chest and significantly push downward until the heel of my boot has successfully crushed a rib. Louder, more excruciating yelps spring loose, calling, begging, pleading for me to move my foot.
So, I do.
I move my appendage just a smidgen upward.
Slowly press down again.
Continue to add more and more and more pressure until the area gives way for a second time, cracking like a piece of celery being broken to make someone’s bloody Mary.
There.
I granted him his Christmas wish.
Time for him to grant me one of mine.
Aiming the gun at the center of his forehead, I smoothly state, “Move another inch, and I’ll give you a real reason to be a Grinch this season, motherfucker.”