Best Friend's Ex Box Set

Still, if things went well here, I could catch this Mr. Mask scumbag, throw him in the back of my truck in cuffs – I had a pair in there – and be back in half an hour. With enough apologizing, perhaps Vivienne would forgive me for being half an hour late.

But the lack of a phone also meant that there were other issues I had to deal with. I didn't know if Panetti had also sent a message to Ben, so I had no idea if he was going to be showing up. I knew I might be here all alone, without any backup. It wouldn’t be the first time I had found myself in circumstances like this, and I was confident about my ability to handle things due to what I had been in my past – and I sure as hell might need those skills right now.

I suddenly wished that I'd brought my shotgun with me, but as things stood, I had been in too much of a rush to even think of grabbing it. My instincts in that regard were somewhat rusty. I hoped that other instincts in that skillset were still sharp, as my life might very well depend on them.

Also, not having a phone meant that if things went badly and I got in over my head, I wouldn't be able to call for help.

A part of me briefly considered leaving quietly. I'd be able to get back to Vivienne's place just 10 or 15 minutes late, which wouldn't be great, but it'd still be acceptable, and we could have the awesome evening together I'd been envisioning and looking forward to.

No. A much bigger part of me shoved that thought right out of my head. That wasn't the kind of man I was. This bastard who was about to arrive here was destroying the lives of way too many kids, kids whose lives I had been hired to change. I had the opportunity to get him after he managed to slip through my fingers before, there wasn't any way I was going to let him get away again.

“You're on your own out here, pal,” I muttered to myself under my breath. “Just do like you were trained to do, and you'll be able to handle it.”

I breathed in deeply and got out of the truck, and then walked briskly but quietly into the alley and took cover behind a dumpster near the door where I would be hidden from view, but would be able to hear everything the dealers were saying with clarity.

Damn it! That's something else I could have used my phone for: I would have been able to record their conversation, which could then be used as evidence against them in court. I shook my head – how had I been so damn careless? I was getting rusty.

I didn't have time to stew on my regrets much longer because a black Mercedes with dark tinted windows pulled up outside the building. I crouched down lower behind the dumpster, making sure that I really was hidden and couldn't be seen.

I peeped out from the side where I could see the back door of the building through a crack between the dumpster and the wall, and saw the same drug dealer Ben and I had seen from up on the fire escape come out of the back door and walked across the alley to the car. He had a briefcase in his hand. I saw him lean over by the car, and the passenger side window rolled down – and there he was, wearing this creepy clown mask that covered his whole head: Mr. Mask.

The dealer opened the briefcase for him, and I saw a flash of money – stacks of hundred dollar bills, it looked like. Mr. Mask stared at the money for a while, adding up the total in his head, I guessed, and then he took the briefcase from the dealer. In return, he handed the dealer a backpack which was bulging with something – a whole bunch of Rocket, I assumed.

Why the hell hadn't I brought my phone? Damn it! This was essentially a job for the police, but with no way to contact them, it was either intervene now or let them walk. There was no doubt they’d be armed, but hopefully they weren't actually proficient at using their weapons. Even if both of them had knives they wouldn’t be difficult to handle, but if both of them had guns — and the odds were they would — that might be a bit more challenging.

The bottom line, though, was that a lot of kids' lives and futures were on the line, and I had to act. I had to act quickly before the bastards took off.

I removed my nine-millimeter from its concealed holster beneath my shirt hem and eased out from behind the dumpster.

“Hands in the air!” I shouted. “You with the mask, hands where I c

an see them. Slowly, get out of the car. You with the bag, get down on the ground, face down! Hands flat!”

The drug dealer turned and stared at me with surprise, and he dropped the bag of drugs. He started to comply with my orders, thinking I was a cop, but then Mr. Mask spoke.

“Don't listen to that chump, Wilson – that's no cop, that's the dumbass principal of JFK!”

The drug dealer, evidently named Wilson, froze in mid movement, unsure of what to do. I had no choice but to stay the course.

“It doesn't matter that I'm not a cop! This is a citizen's arrest! You two are dealing in narcotics! Now get out of the car and get on the ground!”

“Or what?” sneered Mr. Mask. “What are you going to do, cowboy?”

"If you don't comply, I'm gonna be forced to use this.”

“I wonder how fast you are, cowboy,” Mr. Mask chidded. “Because mine's already in my hand.”

Then, before I could even move, he whipped his hand up and took a shot at me with a pistol he had been concealing behind the car door. The shot took me in the left shoulder and the force of it punched me rapidly off my feet; one minute I was looking at Mr. Mask and Wilson, the next I was laid out on the concrete, flat on my back and gasping for breath.

“Get the hell outta here!” I heard Wilson shout.

The Mercedes screeched its tires as it took off fast, and I heard footsteps bolting down the alley as Wilson fled on foot.

“Shit,” I groaned, reaching up for my left shoulder with my right hand.

I felt the wound, and it wasn't good. Blood was oozing out and was quickly soaking through my shirt. So much for being all dressed up for the evening. Now what was I gonna do? I didn't want to go to a hospital if I could help it – that would bring on way too much publicity, and set me up for a lot of questions that I didn't want to have to answer, because that would mean my cover would be totally blown.

But I sure as hell couldn't just shrug off a gunshot wound. I had to do something. Now I really, really wished I had brought my phone with me. Wishing, however, wasn't going to achieve a damn thing, though. I had to do something, and I had to do it now.