Page 80 of The Body in the Backyard
She wasn’t wrong. Both men looked as if they shopped exclusively in the Big and Tall section.
“Am I dead?” Griffin’s head popped up on the other side of the Jeep, drawing Nick’s and Weber’s aim.
The news anchor yelped and collapsed to the ground.
“We should be so lucky,” Nick muttered.
“Facedown, on the ground, hands behind your back,” Weber shouted to the two men from the Fiat.
Riley smirked into Burt’s fur when Griffin complied too.
“I’ll take the one dressed like a night prowler. You take Lizard Boots,” Nick said to Weber.
“What?” Weber barked, shaking his head. “I can’t hear shit.”
“Maybe you should have thought to put on your fuckingear protection, dummy.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Nicky. I’m still hungover,”
“Get the guy on the right,” Nick yelled. Together they rounded opposite ends of the vehicles, guns trained on the men on the ground.
Riley felt an entirely inappropriate pitter-pat of female appreciation as she watched her muscly, tattooed boyfriend slap zip ties on a bad guy. Griffin was still shivering on the ground, whining about the gravel damaging his sensitive skin.
Lizard Boots started muttering as Weber reached for his cuffs. But Night Prowler hissed at his partner. “Remember, keep your mouth fucking shut,” he said in what sounded like it could be an Austrian accent.
“I’m so sick of you telling me what to do,” Lizard Boots growled.
Nick nudged Lizard Boots in the hip with his foot. “Hey, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal. We’re all friends here. Go ahead and confess to Uncle Nick and Detective Pain-in-the-Ass why you shot up my goddamn yard.”
Both shooters looked at him, their faces going carefully blank.
“What are you saying?” Weber demanded several decibels louder than necessary.
“None of us like your suit,” Nick quipped, tightening the zip ties on a very unhappy-looking Night Prowler.
The sirens were ear-piercing now. Burt let out a pathetic whimper under her, and Riley rolled off him. The dog gave her face a grateful slurp before galloping onto the porch and through the front door.
“You’re welcome,” she called after him.
She got up, dusted herself off, and rounded the vehicles. Nick and Weber were busy going through the shooters’ pockets and making a pile of the weapons they found. The men from the Fiat didn’t look very happy about their predicament. Both of them were aiming death glares at Griffin, who was still lying facedown and whining pathetically.
Riley sighed. Griffin had managed to T-bone her Jeep dead center, though it did look as though his car took the brunt of the impact. The front end was smashed in to the dashboard. Her Jeep bore a large dent on the driver’s-side door and a spray of new bullet holes in the windshield.
“Sorry, Uncle Jimmy,” Riley said, patting the rear fender.
“That was the most excitement I’ve had since I caught a sand shark in Ocean City,” Uncle Jimmy’s spirit said, cackling.
She reached down and hauled Griffin to his feet. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“No, I’m not okay! My suit is wrinkled, I have dirt in my mouth, and this ugly Jeep destroyed my cute little car,” he whined.
Riley exhaled through her teeth. “I meant did you get shot?”
“Oh. No. I don’t think so. Just great! Grass stains. Those will never come out,” he complained, wiping at the knees of his trousers.
She narrowed her eyes when he straightened. “Did you get new lifts for your shoes? You look taller.”
The first police cruiser charged through the broken gate into the driveway, followed immediately by a second and third.
