Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 68598 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68598 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
“Not really, no,” I said. “But the fact that she said ‘I don’t do gunfights’ is probably a good thing. I don’t know how she’d handle that kind of thing, and honestly, I don’t know…”
“Keep talking great about me,” Folsom said as she chirped into the truck’s speaker system. “Now, what you’re going to do is drive. That Wagoneer is on its last fifty miles. The first gas station is a big one. They’re probably not going to go to that one because there are too many people. The next one is a little more decently sized. I don’t think they’ll go to that one, either. My guess, they’ll go to the third station. I’m going to drive straight there. Park off in the distance. I won’t really be able to help unless you want me to pick the child up and drive off. That I’m okay with. But if you’re gonna need assistance in the way of a gunner, I’m not that. I don’t even know how to shoot.”
I looked at Sam, who smiled at me. “Nice to have someone that knows what their limits are.”
We drove.
We caught up to the Wagoneer in ten minutes.
Mostly because I was doing seven over, and the Wagoneer was doing exactly the speed limit, if not a little under each time.
“My guess, he’s gonna dump this one here,” she said. “He’s not going to want to chance driving a stolen vehicle, especially one that flashy, any longer.”
I could practically see Bayou and Sam stiffen up in anticipation the closer we got to the SUV.
I kept a respectable distance back, staying well out of the “he’s following me” zone.
Folsom was right. The dude skipped the first two gas stations and chose the third.
It was much smaller. Which meant it was quite a bit harder to hide in any way.
But Folsom managed it.
We, on the other hand, didn’t even try.
We pulled up right next to the Wagoneer, watching as a man and a woman got out.
“There are two in the front, one in the back,” Folsom whispered. “Now, get out and start refueling. Make it look normal.”
I looked at the fuel gauge.
It was barely below full.
This would be a short fuel-up, but I got out and filled it up anyway.
I went through the motions while Sam got out and went inside.
Bayou stayed where he was, tense and watching the car like a hawk.
“They’re not going to fill up. They’re going to find a new car,” she assured us.
That was exactly what they did.
“The only one left inside is a younger man. Maybe an older teen,” she said. “I’m gonna set the car alarm off.”
Bayou tensed even further.
I waited, door open so I could hear Folsom.
A few seconds later, the car alarm for the SUV started going off, and a frantic-looking teen got out.
He looked around, almost as if he was trying to find his accomplices in crime.
I took half a second to consider what I was doing, then reared back and let my fist fly directly into the kid’s glass jaw.
He dropped so hard and fast that the curb met his fall.
Bayou was out seconds later, practically ripping the door off its hinges to get to his son.
His son, who came into his arms with a sleepy smile a second later, turned his face into his daddy’s neck and went back to sleep.
I’d never seen a grown man cry before. At least not so silently, but Bayou did.
It was honestly quite terrifying.
To see the amount of emotion that the man kept bottled up inside…not even in his body did he show any of the tension that had to be filtering through him.
Just those silent tears.
“In the truck,” I ordered.
Bayou got in the truck.
I got in, too, and drove around to the other end of the station, where I expected to find Sam.
“I contacted state police,” Folsom said. “They should be here any second.”
Sam came around the corner of the building, wiping his lip free of what looked like a speck of blood.
So he’d taken care of the other two, good.
Bayou drew in a large, steadying breath and then pressed his lips to the baby’s forehead.
The tears dried up. Just that suddenly.
He opened his eyes again, and I saw the rage, barely concealed, hidden in their depths.
Oh yeah, dude was pissed as hell.
“I called the mama,” Folsom said. “She knows that you have him. I’ve also dealt with the police. Head back to the helicopter.”
So we did, trusting her to be telling the truth.
“Think they’re gonna make it?” I asked carefully.
I’d hit the kid pretty hard, and he’d hit the concrete quite forcefully. If he was okay, I’d be surprised.
However, in my deep moral code, I knew that I’d done the right thing. That “kid” I’d hit wasn’t really a kid. Hadn’t been for a while. He’d been playing dangerous games, and he’d won a dangerous prize.