Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Explain the appeal?” I asked him, gesturing at the TV screen.
“The bad guys always get caught. Good always wins.”
I smiled at him because I liked that part too.
Owen had to go out of town to be a guest lecturer at Stanford University, and made me promise not to invite any strange men home while he was gone.
“Yeah, maybe don’t worry about that,” I told him when I kissed him goodbye at the security checkpoint.
“Oh, Daddy,” a man said as he passed us.
Owen growled, shooting lasers out of his eyes. “This is why we need to get married. Guys keep looking at you like…” He huffed in frustration. “You need a ring.”
I chuckled into his hair, then kissed his cheek. “I don’t need a ring. You’re the catch. You told me, remember?” I teased him.
“No, Jared,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around my neck. “It’s you. Oh, baby, it’s so you. You’re the catch, and I’m so happy you’re mine.”
I was. All his.
At home, I fed the dogs, then took them for a walk. We were on our regular route, around the park, through the wooded area, when suddenly Ernie stopped. I was carrying Lulu by that time, just for a little way since her legs were so much shorter.
“Hey, buddy, let’s go,” I prodded him, but he stepped in front of me, not letting me move as he stared at the tree line.
Since I wasn’t stupid, I bolted behind a tree, Ernie right behind me as I heard the first shot.
Setting Lulu on the ground, I gave the command firmly, “Down,” and was so thankful that Owen had trained them to do this—to lie down and not move until we called for them.
Lulu did it like a champ. I wish I’d had time to take a picture to show the trainer who said that could never happen with a Chihuahua, but another shot tore a chunk out of the tree I was using for cover and I had to lure whoever away from my dogs. I ran all out for better cover, only making it halfway before I was hit in the spine by a heavy kick that sent me toppling nose first into the dirt. I rolled from my belly and scrabbled to my feet barely ahead of the attacker closing in on me. The Asian man was fit, a Buckmaster 184 clutched in his left hand in the classic knife-fighting position. The assassin dropped low and made two quick jabs upward, wielding the blade with a practiced brutal grace. Just as he jabbed, I parried, and the blade scythed through the air, barely an inch past my face. I clenched a fist, sending my best haymaker into the man’s jaw as he slashed at my lower abdomen, intent on sending my bowels spilling out onto the leaf-covered ground. The blow connected like a piston, sending his world to black, giving me the second I needed to draw the Glock 43 I never left the house without. I leveled the handgun and finished the attacker off with two precise shots to the head as he fell away.
“Fuck,” I hissed, hearing what sounded like heavy footsteps behind me. Of course, the bastard had a partner in the woods with him trying to kill me. I spun around toward the source of the sound and saw a shape six or seven meters away, I calculated, bolting forward. He had the drop on me, but I had the early evening gloom and undergrowth in my favor. I made an instant calculation and squeezed two three-round bursts in the direction of the shape. It was a microsecond before the crack of two suppressed shots in my direction. I shrieked in pain as I felt hot metal from one of the rounds pierce my right shoulder.
Diving for the nearest available cover, I held position, stifling my own groans as I listened in the dark for any movement. It was impossible with the rush of blood in my ears, my heart pounding furiously against my rib cage as I breathed heavily. I was thankful for the silence because my gun was empty. When I was certain it was safe, I crept in the direction of my shots, finding where the man landed about two meters away.
I illuminated the dead man with the screen of my iPhone, seeing the look of dumb surprise on his face, his mouth agape as if to shout. My bullets had slapped into his neck and upper chest, blood pooling around him.
I holstered the Glock and sank against the nearest tree and called for the dogs. I praised them both, petted them both, and realized that the round in my shoulder had simply grazed me. It was good news, as this way Owen wouldn’t murder me.
I called Darius on FaceTime because the CIA agent in charge in Chicago was an asshole but I needed help. Calling the police was not an option.