“Get away!” he yelled at Alvarez because Green, face mashed into the floor, was still attempting to fire his weapon. “Call for backup. Oh, for Christ’s sake!” His hand clamped over Green’s wrist, forcing the gun onto the floor. He pressed his weight down hard as the bigger man was trying like hell to flip O’Keefe off his back. O’Keefe’s nose was bleeding and he was sweating, breathing hard, as he straddled a wriggling, furious Green.
“Get the fuck off me,” Green ground out, his voice muffled against the concrete where a series of oil leaks had stained the floor.
“Give it up!” she ordered. “Junior Green, drop your weapon!”
“Get out of here, Selena! Run!” O’Keefe yelled, trying to hold Green down. With his one hand rendering the big man’s hand useless, he managed to grab hold of Green’s free, flailing left hand with his own. Grimacing, he forced Green’s meaty fist backward, twisting with all his strength.
“Yeooow,” Green cried into the concrete.
“For God’s sake, Selena,” O’Keefe spat. “Call for backup!”
Alvarez shouted, “I said, give it up, Green!” Adrenaline pulsed through her. “Drop your weapon.”
Green rolled an eye in her direction. “Shut up, bitch!”
With one quick motion, O’Keefe yanked hard on Green’s left arm, forcing it farther up his back.
The big man shrieked in pain. He bucked, trying to throw O’Keefe off him. They slammed against the back of the car.
O’Keefe, straining, his own face red, the veins extended in his neck, applied pressure, twisting hard enough that Green screamed again.
Still he held on to the damned gun. Still he was a threat. Still he could, at any moment, toss O’Keefe off his back and turn his weapon on them both.
“Bastardo!” Weapon pointed directly at the big man, Alvarez hauled back and kicked. The toe of her boot connected with a sickening sound into the side of Junior Green’s head. He let out another squeal of pain, but his fingers loosened on his gun and Alvarez kicked it away from him, the weapon skittering across the concrete and under her car. She was sweating, breathing hard, pumped. Her pistol was sighted on the jerk’s head. With just one pull of the trigger ...
The sound of sirens screaming in the distance snapped her out of it.
She prayed that someone had called 911 and backup was on its way to her home, that the sirens weren’t for another call.
“Don’t move!” she ordered Green, who lay panting on the floor of the garage. “Or I swear, I’ll blow your head off.”
Green forced an eye in her direction, but the fight was out of him. Blood smeared his face; bruises were already starting to appear.
O’Keefe, breathing hard, finally released the big man.
No one doubted for a second that Alvarez would use her weapon, so Green lay on her garage floor, a thick lump of useless human flesh.
Standing, O’Keefe backed away from the prisoner and allowed Alvarez a clear shot, should she need it.
Breathing hard, a bruise developing under his eye, he lifted a sleeve to his nose to stanch the flow of blood that stained his shirt as the siren’s screams echoed through the night.
With her free hand, she found her phone in her pocket, hit a speed dial button and was connected to the station where she identified herself and gave her address and the situation, just to ensure that backup was indeed headed in her direction.
“I’ve got cuffs in the car. Glove box,” she said to O’Keefe and he retrieved them, doing the honors of handcuffing Green as the ex-football player lay, swearing in pain but surprisingly docile, on her garage floor. Only when he was fully cuffed did some of his old acrimony return.
“I’m suing your ass,” Green said to O’Keefe. “My fuckin’ arm’s broke.”
“You’ll live,” O’Keefe said, his eyes bright. “And that’s the bad news.”
Tires crunched on the snow outside. Red and blue light flashed through the window. “Police,” she yelled toward the partially open door as she identified herself. “Situation under control! Suspect in custody!” To Green, she said, “Get up, you bastard. Get onto your feet and don’t do anything stupid, or I swear, I will shoot you dead and feel real good about it!”
Pescoli got the call about the shooting at Alvarez’s address just as the timer went off on the tuna casserole she’d thrown together. The sheriff himself had decided to fill her in and she turned off the stove as well as the timer, then listened hard, giving the sheriff her full attention. It seemed that J. R., Junior Green, a pedophile and genuinely sick son of a bitch, had come back to make good on his promise. According to Grayson, he was in custody and Alvarez was fine, or as fine as one could be after being the victim of a near-death shooting. She and Dylan O’Keefe, who had been with her at the time, had been checked out by a nurse and refused to go to the hospital. Green, however, was banged up pretty bad, and Alvarez’s Outback had sustained damage from stray bullets.
“I’m on my way,” she said, and Grayson didn’t try to discourage her.
“Good. I’m thinkin’ your partner could use a friend.”
“Sounds like she’s got one.”