Page 71 of Inked Daddies

Movement in the corner of my eye draws my attention to the tall oak tree near the driveway. My father once told me he’d planted that tree shortly after I was born, envisioning we’d grow up together. A twisted pang seizes my stomach as I notice a sparkle of metal up in the branches. A shape perched too high to be one of the men on the ground.

They’ve got a sniper.

My mind pictures Trick and Hugo in the sniper’s line of fire, Sam sneaking around the back with no idea someone is poised to pick them off. Fear roars inside me, a desperate, clawing need to warn them.

But how? If I exit the truck, I’ll blow the plan. I’m supposed to stay out of sight.

My phone is stuffed in my jacket pocket, but texting them while they’re in the middle of a stealth approach is pointless. They’re not looking at their phones, which are set to silent.

They need an immediate signal. My pulse pounds in my temples.No time.If I wait, the sniper might fire the second one of the guys steps into range.

I stare at the steering wheel. The horn. It’s a terrible idea—slamming on the horn will draw every eye in the yard. The moment they know the truck isn’t empty, that’s it. This goes full-scale nuts. But at least it’ll warn them of the sniper, right? And Sam said if there’s trouble, honk.

A second of raw indecision chains me in place, but the image of Trick or Hugo getting shot snaps my mind into action. If they have no clue a rifle is trained on them, they’re as good as dead.

I lunge forward, sliding between the front seats, and slam my palm on the horn. The noise blares through the quiet night, an earsplitting honk that feels like it rips a hole in reality.

I press it again, shorter this time, the truck rocking with the force of my hand. My heart beats frantically—please let them hear it, please let them realize what it means.

Instantly, Trick whirls around, half in shadow, half in the porch light, confusion etched on his face. Hugo looks back at me as well, eyes narrowing. They know I’m signaling something.

A muzzle flash erupts from the oak, the crack of a rifle echoing across the yard. My heart slams to a stop. The bullet kicks up dirt near Trick’s feet, missing him by a hair’s breadth. He dives behind the remains of what looks like our shattered porch swing, dust billowing.

And then chaos.

More men pour out of the house—five, maybe six. It’s hard to keep track in the dark. Shouts tear through the air, and muzzle flashes blink like fireflies on steroids.

Hugo ducks behind a toppled piece of furniture in the yard as bullets chew up the grass. Trick leaps up from behind the broken swing, tackling one of the gang members in a blur of fists and fury. He slams the man’s back into the porch railing. The wood splinters, and he sinks to the ground, the front of his shirt shining wet in the faint light.

I think he’s dead.

Another shot from the sniper hits the trunk of a different oak closer to the front of the house, sending shards of bark raining down. One of the men emerging from the house swings around,aiming his gun at Hugo, who ducks just before a blinding flash of light from the gun.

The yard that used to host summer barbecues and father-daughter games of catch is now a lethal mess of gunfire and flying debris.

Guilt and horror knot in my throat.This is all because of me.

My father’s inside. The traffickers want me. The guys have said from the start, “Stay hidden. Let us handle it.” But how can I do nothing?

My gaze darts to the house’s front window, but I can’t see anything through the shattered glass. The lights inside cast odd shadows.

Dad could be in there, tied up, possibly bleeding out…

My vision blurs with tears at the thought. If I lose him, I’ll never forgive myself. If I lose my men, I’ll never forgive myself either.

A bullet zips past the truck, puncturing a front tire with a sharp pop. The vehicle sinks toward the front passenger’s corner, and I let out a yelp, more startled than anything else. The horn’s echo still rings in my ears.

I huddle low, peering through the cracked windshield as Trick grapples with a second thug, fists swinging. Another figure rushes in from the side, brandishing a weapon. Is that Hugo or Sam?

My adrenaline spikes, making identifying who’s who in the dark impossible. The muzzle flashes are disorienting.

In a span of seconds, Trick manages to throw one of the gang members to the ground. He lifts his head, eyes searching forme, for the sniper, for anything. Another shot from the oak’s branches cracks across the yard. Trick dives, scrambling behind an overturned table.

I see another muzzle flash from inside the house, random or directed, I can’t tell. My father is still inside. That knowledge churns like acid in my stomach. At any moment, the men inside could kill him out of spite or panic. We have no leverage. Just me. My father’s only value to them is as bait for me, but the second they realize the guys are here, how do we keep him safe?

They want me.

That’s the only reason they took him. If I step out, maybe they’ll hold their fire. Maybe we can trade. Give them what they want. Maybe that’ll distract them enough for Sam, Trick, and Hugo to slip away with Dad.

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