Page 65 of Daddy Defender
“Visual on SUVs,” Connor says. “Four per vehicle, armed. Submachine guns, body armor. Pros. No sign of Vince.”
“Hold position,” I order, my mind racing…
Eight cartel heavies, and Vince’s still a wildcard. We’re outnumbered, but we’ve faced worse. The pier’s layout is our advantage—choke points, cover, Connor’s high ground. If we hit fast, we can thin their numbers before they spread out.
But Bodie’s out there, exposed, and every second he’s in Shred is a second too long…
The SUVs creep closer, their engines a low snarl as they pull into the lot, stopping thirty yards from Shred.
Doors open, and eight men spill out, moving with the precision of cartel enforcers who’ve done this dance before.
They fan out, weapons up, their silhouettes sharp against the pier’s lights. My eyes lock on a ninth figure stepping from the lead SUV—tall, lean, board shorts and a cocky swagger I’d know anywhere.
Vince.
That bastard’s here, and it’s personal now.
“Vince’s on deck,” I say, my voice cold steel. “Bodie, you’re up, Little One. Showtime. Quick in, quick out.”
“Got it, Daddy,” Bodie’s voice comes through, soft but laced with that surfer boy grit.
I hear Shred’s door creak open, and my chest tightens. Bodie steps out, his hoodie up, his small and athletic frame silhouetted against the van’s headlights. He lingers just long enough to be seen—five seconds, tops—then ducks back inside, the engine roaring to life.
“Good boy,” I murmur, relief flickering. “Now get the hell out of here.”
But Vince’s already moving, his head snapping toward Shred, his hand gesturing sharply.
Two cartel men break off, sprinting toward the van, their MP5s glinting. My blood runs cold. They’re too fast, too close. Bodie’s peeling out, tires screeching, but they’re gaining, and Vince’s barking orders, his voice carrying over the waves.
“Stop him!” Vince shouts, his tone venomous. “He doesn’t leave this pier!”
“Connor, take the runners,” I snap, already breaking cover, my boots pounding the gravel. This wasn’t the plan—Bodie was supposed to be gone before they got close—but I’ll be damned if they touch him. “Cole, cover me!”
“On it,” Connor says, and a suppressedthwipcuts the air. One goon drops, clutching his leg, his weapon clattering.
A secondthwip, and the other stumbles, blood spraying from his shoulder.
Connor’s precision is surgical, but the other six are closing, their submachine guns spitting fire, rounds chewing into the crate where Cole’s hunkered.
“Moving!” Cole grunts, rolling to new cover, his rifle barking.
A cartel thug screams, hitting the ground, but the others scatter, using the pier’s pillars for cover. Bullets ricochet, sparking off metal, the air alive with chaos.
“Fresh cartel SUV incoming,” Connor says over the comms. “We ain’t close to being done with thesesonsofbitchesyet.”
I sprint toward Shred, my Glock up, firing controlled bursts. A cartel hitman pops from behind a piling, his MP5 trained on me, but I drop him with a double-tap to the chest before he can squeeze the trigger.
My heart’s hammering, not from fear but from the need to get to Bodie.
The boy’s weaving Shred through the lot, dodging crates, but Vince’s running now, cutting an angle to intercept, a pistol in his hand.
“Bodie, floor it!” I roar into the comms, my voice raw. “Don’t stop, no matter what!”
“I’m trying, Daddy!” Bodie cries, panic edging his words. Shred fishtails, clipping a barrel, but he keeps going, heading for the exit road. Vince’s too close, raising his pistol, and I see red. No way in hell he gets a shot off.
I change course, barreling straight for Vince, my shoulder slamming into him like a freight train. We hit the ground hard, gravel biting my skin, his pistol skittering across the pavement.
Vince snarls, swinging a fist, but I block it, driving my elbow into his jaw. Bone crunches, and he howls, but he’s a slippery bastard, scrambling back, reaching for a knife at his belt.
