Page 140 of Tangled In Tinsel & Knots
Kane slams him face-first against the trunk.
“I can,” Kane says. “And I will.”
Scot sputters as we spin him, yank his arms back and zip-tie his wrists tightly around the rough bark, securing him to the tree. He jerks against the restraints, skin scraping raw, but he’s not going anywhere.
He’s still crying from the Taser, and now he’s cursing through the tears.
“You’re dead—you’re both dead—you think you can?—”
Kane punches him in the kidney hard enough to fold him.
“That’s for hurting Hannah,” he growls.
Scot chokes. “You—fucking—psychos?—”
I hit him once across the jaw. Controlled. Precise. Enough to shut him up, not enough to knock him out.
“And that,” I say coldly, “is for trying to ruin her career.”
Scot hangs there panting, drooling onto the pine roots, still twitching from the aftershocks.
I pull out my phone and dial 911 while Kane deals with the two muscleheads who are trying to get up. He zip-ties them and pulls our blades free. A dispatcher answers immediately. “Emergency services?—”
“This is Noel Saxon,” I say, voice clipped and professional. “Bounty hunter license 4728. I’m reporting a criminal hideout at these coordinates—” I rattle them off using the GPS on my phone. “Multiple fugitives with active warrants. Illegal confinement. Money laundering. Armed suspects subdued. Primary target Scot Giordano is restrained on-site.”
The dispatcher sounds stunned. “Sir, can you remain at the location?—”
“No,” I cut in. “We have a critical, time-sensitive obligation. The suspects are secured and will not be leaving. Send the sheriff and every deputy available.”
I hang up before she can argue.
“You bring the truck around,” Kane says. “I’ll get Corn Dog. The rest are too damn big to cram in the back.”
“Yeah,” I agree, chest still heaving. “We leave them here. They’re safe enough in the pen until the sheriff shows. I’ll call it in, tell them that the animals belong to us and we’re coming back after we get Corn Dog to Hannah.”
“They’ll want our statements anyway.” Kane is already gone, cutting across the yard.
I sprint toward the front gate, boots slamming against the snowy ground, the adrenaline still running hot. By the time I get the truck nosed down the driveway toward the house, Kane bursts out of the cabin with Corn Dog in his arms, carrying him like a toddler throwing a tantrum.
I pull up fast.
Kane yanks open the back door and shoves the reindeer inside. Corn Dog immediately turns in three frantic circles on the seat, hooves thumping against upholstery like we’re launching him into space.
He gets in and slams the door shut.
“We good?” I ask.
“Go,” Kane says. “Before he kicks through the damn window.”
Corn Dog is already climbing across the back seat, nose pressed between the headrests, breath fogging my neck. He shoves his face against my cheek like he’s trying to merge our skulls together.
“Buddy—hey—personal space,” I mutter, pushing his snout back gently. “You’re adorable, but I need to see the road.”
Corn Dog responds by licking my ear.
Kane laughs under his breath. “He’s excited.”
“He’s a beast,” I shoot back, gripping the wheel. “Buckle him down.”
