Page 10 of Preying Heart
“You, step back.” Gray Suit B cocks his gun at the lone wolf, the silencer long and menacing.
“They’re going to hurt you,” Lone Wolf says to me. “They have organized crime written all over them.”
“Did Gavin send you?” I ask the gray suits.
“Of course he did, and it looks like we got you in the nick of time,” the man holding my hand says. “Gavin was so worried about you. It’s a shame how your brother kidnapped you and skipped out on you once again.”
I catch my breath and look back at Lone Wolf. He looks to be within Slade’s budget—rough, scruffy, and dodgy.
Who do I trust?
Gavin or Slade?
I swing my purse at Gray Suit A and lunge toward the open door.
Heath
A shot of pure fear passes over Remi’s face when the guy mentions Gavin. I did my homework. Gavin is the congressman in her district. He’s also the son of Stan and Deana Greasley, which makes him Remi’s foster brother.
It happens in a split second. Remi swings at the guy holding her hand. The guy with the gun trained on me pivots toward her.
Splat. Splat. Splat.
Three shots are fired through his silencer, pegging him as a trigger-happy rookie.
I slam my shoulder into his kneecap, tackling him and sending him into the mirror. It shatters, and he drops the gun, screaming and howling in pain.
I grab his Glock 17 and take off after Remi and the other man who must be cursing his trigger-happy partner under his breath.
We bounty hunters, skip tracers, or fugitive recovery agents work best alone, without drawing attention. With the shots fired, people are popping their heads out of their doorways like prairie dog social hour.
The lead assailant picks Remi up and hoists her over his shoulder. Good. It slows him down as he runs out into the parking lot toward the passenger side of a black van. I gain ground coming in from the other side between a row of cars.
He unlocks the van remotely and slides the side door open. I jump into the driver’s seat and start the push-button ignition, thankful that his key fob is in range.
“Hey!” He shoves Remi into the cargo compartment and goes for his gun.
I slam the transmission into reverse and ram my foot on the gas. Tires scream, and the van lurches backward. The man has one foot inside the van, hanging on to the safety bar with his left hand. He aims the gun at me, and I jam the brakes.
He shoots twice.
The driver’s side window shatters, and another bullet splats through the dashboard. Remi screams and I can’t check if she’s hit or not.
I have to dislodge the shooter before I can help her.
Shifting to drive, I jerk the wheel to the left and spin out on the gravel lot, doing wheelies to keep him from pulling his entire body into the van.
Hitting the button for the door, I gun the engine and sideswipe a delivery truck.
The gunman tumbles from the van and the door closes, locking in place.
I can hear Remi whimpering on the floor of the van behind me.
“You okay?” I ask Remi. “Did you get shot?”
“I’m fine, no thanks to you,” she seethes through gritted teeth. “Before we go any farther, you’d better drop me off at the police station.”
“Not if your brother’s on the lam. This unmarked vehicle and those greasy gelled suits—smells like Feds—dirty, stinking Feds on the take.”
