Page 101 of Extradition (Mobsters + Billionaires 1)
The driver rolls down the window, and Joe stops me at the bottom of the stairs. “Hey, James. Who’s this new driver?”
The soft thoot and muzzle flash don’t register right away, even as James falls. The single drop of blood oozing from the small black hole in his forehead is equally surreal, and my heart starts knocking against my ribs—danger, danger, danger.
Joe shoves me back toward the stairs.
“Get the fuck inside. Get help. Don’t worry about me.”
My feet start moving before I understand what’s going on. I reach the top of the stairs as the driver and two other guys drag Joe off to the side. I pause, my legs like rubber as I watch him fight back with everything he’s got, bare-knuckle brawling despite the overwhelming odds against him.
“Get the fuck outta here, Rand!”
His words are a cattle prod to my spine, and I nearly make it to the door when I’m tackled by two men, one enormous and the other thin and wiry.
“Fight back!” Joe spits out as he’s being pulled back in a chokehold.
As they drag me down the steps, I twist and yell, throwing my elbows until I wrangle myself free. Hitting the ground with a thud, I ignore the sharp pain in my knees as I scramble to my feet.
Half running, half tripping, I make it to the first step before my legs are taken out from under me. I swing my elbows with a little more force this time, hitting the wiry guy’s nose with a wet crunch. He drops my foot, and I kick out, landing a blow to something softer, the big guy’s stomach.
Holding his bloody nose, the skinny one opens the door to my car. I flail as the big guy drags me over, violently shoving me inside. I register a blow to my head, but I brush it off, gripping the doorframe like grim death. With blood dripping down into my eyes, I blindly kick out again and again, making contact with soft and hard body parts.
Finally, they grab my legs and yank me away from the doorframe. The big guy pins my arms behind me with one hand while shoving a chemical-soaked rag against my nose and mouth. Already breathing heavily from trying to escape, I can’t help it as I inhale lungfuls of whatever is on that rag. It’s terrifying how quickly the fight goes out of me.
Cursing, they finally manage to get me into the back of the car. Just as the skinny one opens the driver’s door, a series of low, menacing pops come from the side. My two would-be kidnappers scramble away, leaving me in the back seat. The skinny one is blown back by an invisible force, landing with a crunch of gravel. He stays down.
I realize, belatedly, that he’s been shot. And is probably dead.
As my head begins to make sense of things, Joe comes racing into view, his knife in one hand, an enormous gun in the other. He’s immediately beset by the big guy, and my heart falls to my stomach. The sounds of violence are more terrifying than I would have imagined, made somehow worse by the fog in my head.
Joe raises his gun, but the guy knocks it away with his meaty fist. I’m shivering, my stomach in revolt, horrified that I’m about to see the man I’ve fallen in love with lose his life.
Joe glances my way for a split-second, and in that brief moment, I see someone I’ve never met before. The incident in Central Park was nothing like this. His eyes are darker, his features harder, and his demeanor is cold as ice. I don’t know this version of him at all.
His face contorts into a murderous sneer, and he plunges his knife into the man’s gullet, ripping up and to the side. Yanking the blade from the man’s body, he drops to a crouch to slice at the man’s ankles. The large man falls like Goliath, and I don’t know what’s more startling, the sound of his body hitting the ground or how the ground shakes when he lands.
Scrambling to sit up, I search for a weapon to defend myself. Spotting a Billy club in the front seat, I lean over to grab it just as Joe slams the door shut. My world goes silent as I sit back, gripping the club tight in my fist.
I suppose the dampening effect is a coveted feature in luxury vehicles for city driving, but the violence is somehow more frightening without the soundtrack.
With nothing but the Billy club to defend me, I sit back and feel useless—helpless—as I watch Joe rear back and kick the man on the ground, again and again until he’s satisfied. The car shakes as something lands on the hood with a dull thump. I chance a look out the front window to find a guy I don’t recognize fighting off two more men.
With a panoramic view, I watch as Joe calmly picks up his gun and dispatches the two remaining attackers with that same flat look on his face. He checks in with the guy I assume is event security. They nod together, looking like they’ve reached an agreement. The security guy starts heading to the passenger side when Joe lifts his gun a final time and puts a bullet in the back of his skull.
Jumping at the muted sound, I’m reminded of the time I saw those twenty-six seconds of the Zapruder film of the JFK assassination. Only this is much, much worse.
Horrified, I watch as Joe checks the gun, reloads it, and stands sentinel for several long moments. Finally, he pulls his phone up and makes a call, his words unintelligible through the tempered glass. Shaking his head, it’s clear that he disagrees with the person on the line.
He cuts off the phone call with a snarl and leans down. When he stands, he’s got the keys in his hand and finally approaches the car.
Wordlessly opening the driver’s side door, Joe slides into place, locks the doors, turns on the car, and reverses out of the narrow drive. I open my mouth to say something, then think better of it.
As we clear the main building and turn onto the street, Edgerton and his squad rush the scene. He looks over at us as we pull away, his lips thin. Joe starts driving through the city in the opposite direction of my building.
I still don’t recognize the man driving the car.
