Accidental Shield

I want to believe it’s Flint, or Cash, or Davis walking in, but it’s already too late.

Savanny is hissing and growling.

18

When Canaries Sing (Flint)

The lack of security makes me wonder even more about Ray and exactly what he’s dealing with, and why.

A business of this caliber with an entire room full of dark secrets should have more security. Not just a twenty year old kid up front, who’s so glued to his phone he doesn’t even watch the main lot.

Val was right. All I’d needed was the code for the back door.

She’s been right about other things too. Little things about the house, about Bryce.

She was only wrong about Bali. Yes, I’d told the others it wasn’t their fault. It was mine.

I was the team leader, so the burden fell on my shoulders alone.

But none of this shit with King Heron is her fault.

And if I can prove it, maybe I’ll start seeing something different with my situation, too.

The green light flashing pulls my attention back to where it’s needed. The light indicates the reader just accepted the fingerprint I’d held against the screen.

I hold my breath, opening the door, shining my flashlight in.

What the hell? It looks like a tiny situation room. Pictures tacked on the walls, file cabinets, shelves, boxes. I move closer, and recognize Joel Cornaro as the man in several photos.

I’d known he was behind this, but as I shift through some papers, read the dates written on the photos, I have to wonder if I was wrong about Ray. Very fucking wrong.

This looks more like he’s been pulling together proof against the Cornaro Outfit.

Not scheming up more elaborate crimes.

A shiver zips up my spine just as my mind registers a faint sound.

I click off the flashlight and duck down, scuttling behind the open door.

Footsteps, already growing closer, louder.

Fuck.

It’s as black as the ocean floor in this room. I close my eyes, focusing on the light scuffing sounds.

Two people, I think. Men from the sound of their footsteps. Rubber soles on their shoes. Moving slowly. Cautiously.

I focus harder, let my hearing be my eyes.

They’re in the office now, moving closer to the set of bookshelves. I see a silhouette through the crack in the door, a misshapen head.

Night goggles. Meaning they can see a hell of a lot more than I can.

One man drifts away, back into the hall. Another’s coming closer. Almost to the door, the only barrier between me and them.

I wait, holding my breath, counting out the seconds between his steps.

When my instincts tell me, I count to two, registering the man’s next uneasy steps.

Now!

In one fluid movement, I slam the door into him like a heavy shield.

He grunts, but my timing was too perfect.

He’s pinned between the door and the wall, under my full ferocious weight.

Using his stunned state to my advantage, I rip the gun out of his hand while kicking open the door, then wrap a brute arm around his neck. Once I’ve got him in a chokehold that could smother a bull, gun pressed snug against his temple, I hiss into his ear, “Tell your buddy to drop his gun or you’re dead.”

He struggles, but only for a moment, knowing I have the upper hand.

I tighten my hold on his neck, the pressure pinching his throat shut. “Tell him!”

“D-drop your gun!” he growls.

“Skinner?” Goon Number Two speaks up.

There are only two inside the building, I’m certain, so I give the man’s neck another quick, painful squeeze before I let him talk.

He grunts. “Y-yeah! Drop your gun.”

With my arm still around his neck and the gun at his head, I push the man through the opening in the shelves, using him as my buffer. There’s enough light in the office so I can see the other man, his gun pointed dead at us.

“Drop your fucking gun or your friend’s dead,” I bite off.

“Can’t do that,” Goon Two sneers.

“Okay. Your funeral.” I pivot the gun and fire. Knowing they’re wearing bulletproof vests, I’d aimed for his hip, the weak break in the armor. The squeal he belts out tells me I nailed it.

He fires an erratic shot while going down.

I twist the man in my hold, keeping him upright as the bullet strikes his chest.

“Fuck!” he shouts.

I grin. Even though the kevlar saves him from a hole in the chest, it still smarts like hell, absorbing the full shock of an angry bullet.

The other man fires again.

But his bullet strikes the man in front of me in the thigh this time, and I aim for the shooter’s hand. He screeches as my shot bites skin.

The guy in my arms is shouting. “You fuck, it hurts!”

I let go, and he hits the floor, still moaning.

The other guy is on the ground, twisting like a fish out of water. He gives me a look of disbelief.