Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 70323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
“It’s loaded down with enough magazines for my Glock that I could fight my way out of a third world country,” he explained as he turned his back to face the others. “Can someone help me rip this tee so I can see what we’re working with?”
“Hey, buddy,” Malachi joked. “Did you know you have a splinter?”
The others chuckled as my dad reached forward and ripped the shirt at the seam, exposing Saint’s back to the entire room.
“Nice tattoo,” Clayton said. “How long that take you?”
“Four sessions at about eight hours a piece,” Saint answered. “How fucked-up is it?”
I walked over and peered at his back, as well as the sliver of wood, about eight inches long and an inch in diameter, sticking out of it.
“None of your tattoo,” I said, running my fingers around the edges. “It’s…”
I yanked it out before he could tense up.
Saint cursed, long and loud. My dad stepped back, laughing. And my brothers, who were expecting it, had their phones out to take a photo.
“What the fuck?” Saint asked, a glare in his eyes. “I thought you couldn’t get it out?”
“I didn’t say that I couldn’t get it out,” I said. “I said that the tee wouldn’t allow me to get it out.”
I held up the sliver of wood that’d been inserted about six inches in his back. “Do you want to keep this?”
Saint took it and rotated his shoulder.
“That’s probably going to need stitches.” Booth walked up to peer at it.
I looked at my stained floor again.
“Daddy,” I said softly. “Just how much sealer did you put on my floors?”
Dad looked back at the blood. “Hopefully enough. The last fuckin’ thing I want to do is deal with those floors again.”
“We’ll get a professional cleaner in here once the crime scene techs get done,” Saint suggested as he walked toward the front door. “Come on, Caro. I need you to hold my hand while I get this looked at.”
“I’m telling you.” Booth came back in. “Stitches.”
“Fuck off,” Saint grumbled.
I squeezed his hand a little bit tighter with my own.
He returned the squeeze and didn’t stop until we were next to the ambulance.
“Hey, man,” Saint said to the medic, his eyes on the piece of wood. “This need stitches?”
The medic was standing around looking bored until Saint walked up. His hands were crossed in front of him with his foot tapping impatiently.
His eyes were hidden behind a pair of those blue light glasses that were meant to help when staring at a computer screen or whatever.
But still, there was something about the man’s eyes when he saw Saint.
The medic went all business and pulled on some gloves before making a twirling motion with his finger.
“Turn around,” the man whispered.
Saint turned around and presented the medic with his back, his eyes still on the wood.
“Gonna need to wipe it down,” still the medic was whispering.
I tensed.
I wasn’t sure why.
But the way the guy’s eyes looked as he reached into his bag had me paying attention.
I expected the man to come out of the bag with some alcohol wipes or something.
Not something black.
His eyes were on the piece of wood in his hand, so Saint didn’t see this until it was too late.
I, on the other hand, knew the instant I saw the way the man’s hand curled around the butt of the gun.
Without thinking, let alone considering what would happen if I did it, I yanked that sharpened piece of wood out of Saint’s hand.
Between one breath and the next, the medic had the gun pointed at the back of Saint’s head.
But he wasn’t as fast as me.
Within a half a second I’d buried that piece of wood in the man’s throat. It was the only soft place I could think of where it would do the most damage and stop him from blowing my man’s head apart.
The gun clattered to the floor as Saint whirled around.
“Holy fuck!” he shouted.
The medic dropped to the floor clutching the piece of wood in his neck.
“Don’t move it, motherfucker,” I snarled. “They might be able to save you if you don’t move it.”
The man’s glasses slipped and Saint tensed.
“Son of a bitch!” he hissed.
I looked over at him.
“What?” I asked.
“That’s Juris Holloway. My father’s advisor.” His eyes found mine, full of shock, as he said, “He almost executed me and I was allowing it.”
It was then that the shock started to set in.
I’d stabbed a man in the throat with a fuckin’ stake for Christ’s sake!
“I’m so sorry that I made you do that.” Saint’s arms went around me. He was shaking with fury at the breach of my safety and the fact that I’d had to do that.
But I’d do it over and over again.
A thousand times, as long as he was living at the end of the day.