Lift You Up (Rivers Brothers 1)

But I was diligent.

The lock out front was engaged.

The locks on the back door - all three - had been checked by me just hours before.

Besides, what self-respecting thief would bypass the gold buying store and hit a pet store? Surely they must have known by the worn linoleum floors with chewed up corners that Howie's was not - in any way shape or form - rolling in it. While, sure, people could - and often did - spoil the heck out of their furry and feathered and scaled babies, the income we made just barely kept the bills paid and the payroll doled out. There wasn't a heck of a lot leftover.

I would know.

Since Harry didn't like the business end of things, I handled the books. I was the one who pulled off magic tricks to be able to update the lighting or heating on the reptile tanks, work with a new, better rabbit breeder; found a few pennies to rub together to keep an endless stream of Milk Bones under the counter as complimentary gifts for four-legged visitors.

No self-respecting criminal would target this store.

So while maybe my footsteps were a bit slower, a bit more careful, my belly wasn't exactly in knots as I made my way down the metal shelving units that went well over my head, the top shelves loaded down with things that I could pull down without a ladder - and without crushing myself like the large dog food bags might - hay and pine chips for the small animals.

It wasn't until I rounded the corner of the second to last row that I finally realized I was that girl.

The one in the horror movie who went down into her basement in her underwear with no weapon to investigate a loud noise.

That was who I was.

A girl I had scoffed at too many times to count.

Utterly clueless.

Completely killable.

The wide double-doors leading to the back street were thrown - and locked - open like they would be for the weekly deliveries of food or animals.

The streetlights cast the scene in black shadows and artificial yellow glow.

It took a long second to make out the shapes, to understand the scene right before my eyes, a scene taking place right outside the double doors.

Three shapes danced around my vision before making definite forms. Three circles. Three slants. Heads and shoulders leading down to the rectangles and globes of fit - or rounded - midsections.

My heart skittered in my chest as one of the dark figures bent down, the flash of his watch clock face glass catching the light, drawing my gaze to his hand as it closed around something I had missed sprawled on the ground, completely in shadow. But big. Heavy. Lifting slowly off the ground as it was pulled upward.

"I don't have it," a voice hissed out, low, worried or pained or possibly both. But even so - familiar.

My spastic heart stuttered to a dead stop in my chest, edging its way up to lodge at the back of my throat.

Harry.

That was Harry's voice.

Harry was the shapeless shadow being pulled off the floor.

And I wasn't so naive as to consider he had possibly tripped and fallen, that the shadow men were there because they were simply Good Samaritans happening by, coming to his aid.

This was Navesink Bank. You couldn't swing a stick without hitting someone involved in some form of criminal activity.

Shadowy figures in a store that was supposed to be closed and locked towering over the prone figure of the owner could only mean one thing.

And that one thing meant I needed to get the hell out of there.

But my feet refused to move.

I couldn't claim to be a hero. I had no self-defense skills to speak of - save for having a great trigger finger on the mace I keep in my purse. You know... the purse I left on the passenger floor of my car because I was only going to be five minutes. It wasn't like I was entertaining some grand idea to create a diversion and somehow overtake three large men. But I couldn't seem to move either. Couldn't seem to bring myself to abandon him.

A crack.

Fist meeting soft flesh and hard bone.

A grunt.

Pain ricocheting through Harry's skull.

My stomach twisted, swirled, made me wonder if it was possible to throw up when your heart had taken up temporary residence in your throat.

"Well, you need to fucking get it then, don't you?" one of the shadows demanded, voice rough, but not heated. Professionally calm.

Which was somehow worse, right?

If Harry had just ticked off the wrong guys, got into a fight with them, then it was probably going to blow over. Maybe Harry would have sported some bruises and a busted ego. But he would get through it.

But if these were professionals - professionals in a town like the one we were in where the police force looked the other way from the criminal underbelly so long as their accounts had their stacks of bribes cushioning them, then who knew what this could mean. More than bruises and hurt pride, that was for sure.