Lorie O - Strong, Sleek and Sinful

“Are you in?” Jake demanded, his whispered question sounding as if he stood right behind his father.

Greg took his hand off the doorknob and adjusted the earpiece so his son wasn’t yelling in his ear.

“It’s locked,” he growled, having half a mind to shoot the fucking doorknob off the door. “I’m trying the windows.”

“We’re coming in through the front,” Marc decided, breaking in on the conversation.

“Like hell,” Greg said, keeping his voice to a barely audible whisper. “He’s fucking armed and dangerous. We’re working against a ticking time bomb. You two wait for my go-ahead.”

Already he was around the back of the house, edging his way to the nearest window. It was probably a bedroom window and quite possibly where their guy might be hiding out. Greg stared at the dark window, blinds, possibly curtains, or even a mattress, that were making it impossible to see inside. The storm window was up, though, and the window wasn’t so high off the ground or too small that he couldn’t haul his rather large frame through it if he moved quickly. The element of surprise was his only advantage right now.

“Go ahead and call in backup,” Greg told Marc.

“I’m on it,” his son announced.

Greg didn’t bother asking if that meant they were already on their way or not. They would get here when they got here. Greg wasn’t waiting.

Sliding his gun into his holster, Greg pulled out his pocketknife and flipped it open. It wasn’t the kind of knife most fathers carried around with them. The razor-sharp blade would cut through the metal of the screen frame if he wanted it to. Instead, he sliced the screen, imagining their fugitive would probably try suing if he owned this dump and charging him for breaking and entering plus vandalizing his home. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Maybe he didn’t get the protection offered when he wore the uniform. He had to be careful how he went about making his arrests. But at least today red tape was something he would slice through with his handy little pocketknife. Greg ran his own show these days. All that mattered was that the bonds company got their fugitive and Greg got his check.

He sliced the screen, starting in the top left corner and gutting it down the middle, then cutting along the bottom until the screen peeled to the side for him. Greg reached through it, feeling it scrape his damp flesh above his leather glove, and pushed the window up. It lifted with a whiny squeak, obviously complaining from lack of use.

“I’m heading in,” he whispered to his sons. “Move now!”

Greg King wasn’t a small man. More than once in his life, living in Los Angeles, people had asked if he was a professional wrestler. His size didn’t bother him, and it wouldn’t slow him down now. Snapping his pocketknife shut and sheathing it into the leather case attached to his belt, Greg hoisted himself through the window, feeling the wooden frame of the window rake over his shoulders and then his legs. He fell to his side on a dirty wooden floor and immediately pulled his gun, forcing his eyes to adjust quickly to his surroundings as he looked around.

Other than a box spring and mattress that didn’t have a sheet or blankets on it, there wasn’t any furniture in the room. Crumpled fast-food bags and crunched beer cans gave the room the appearance of being one big trash dump.

“Did you hear that?” a man asked from the other room.

“Sounds like we have company.” The thick Hispanic accent sounded just like Pedro Gutierrez, a well-known drug lord and arms dealer who’d been arrested last month and yesterday afternoon failed to show up for court. His probation officer couldn’t find him and the bondswoman was getting nervous.

It was a stupid move on Pedro’s part. He obviously didn’t check the statistics before deciding to run. No criminal ran from Los Angeles and got away. This was his town and Greg was too good. His track record spoke for itself.

“Who the fuck is back there?” the man roared, obviously not afraid at all of the boogeyman being in a dark bedroom.

Nor did he turn on the bedroom light as he stormed in, which was just fine with Greg.

“Hello, Pedro,” he said calmly, pointing his gun straight at the man’s face.

Pedro apparently had no manners. He didn’t return the greeting but instead hauled ass toward the other end of the house. Greg charged after him, feeling the house shake from the two of them running through it.

It wasn’t a long hallway, but Greg didn’t catch the shadow in time that appeared from the bedroom across the hall. He saw the baseball bat, heard the whooshing sound when it sliced through the air.

“Son of a bitch,” he wailed, turning and raising his arm. He braced himself for the pain he’d experience in the next moment as he planned on smacking the bat out of his assailant’s hands.

Intense pain shot across his shoulder and down his spine. The bat hit the side of his neck, just above his shoulder, with enough driving force to knock Greg against the hallway wall.

“Fucking hell,” he roared, although the words damn near caught in his throat when his windpipe smashed closed, stealing his breath, and racking every inch of his body.

Hitting the wall with the other shoulder didn’t make matters any better. The intense headache he’d probably have to deal with the rest of the day slammed into his brain instantly.

A dark, burly-looking man bellowed something in Spanish that didn’t sound very friendly and Pedro responded, their guttural slang difficult for Greg to translate. Especially when pain ransacked his body and a ringing started in his head as he slumped against the wall. The burly motherfucker shoved him out of the way, causing Greg to lose his footing, and then bounded after Pedro, leaving him to hold up the slimy wall.

At least he hadn’t been shot. Maybe the two men weren’t armed. The pain hurt like fucking hell, but he’d have to worry about that later. Reaching for his neck, he cringed from the intense pain that shot down his arm. There wasn’t any blood, though.

“I didn’t give up a night’s sleep so you could give me a migraine and get away,” Greg cursed, using the hallway wall to push himself to his feet. It seemed his legs were heavier than usual when he tried running after them, and he damn near fell on his face. “Tough it up, King,” he ordered himself.

They couldn’t get far. His boys were out front and on the side of the house. Unless they’d already entered. He was in the living room, staring at the open front door when he heard gunfire.

“Son of a bitch!” he hissed. Haley would never forgive him if one of the boys were seriously injured, or worse, while working a job.

He ignored the pain and ran out of the house, not having to worry about his eyes adjusting this time. It wasn’t much lighter outside than it was in the house, but the pain made everything blur. Flashing reds and whites gave the front yard a surreal look. It was odd that moments like this caused him to think of his deranged wife.

“You have the right to remain silent,” a young rookie Greg didn’t recognize said as he continued shoving Charlie Woods toward a squad car. His tone was harsh and full of himself, as if he’d been the one chasing Pedro all night.

“Dad!” Jake yelled, hurrying across the yard.

Greg noticed Marc talking to Margaret Young, one of the bondsmen, or to be politically correct, bondspeople, that the Kings worked with on a regular basis. Jake reached Greg’s side, grabbing his arm on his injured side.

“Where’s Pedro?” Greg demanded, grabbing his boy’s arm and holding on to it tighter than he probably should have when he pulled his son’s hand off him.

“We got them,” Jake said, not complaining even if Greg’s hold on him was painful. “Are you okay?” he asked, as Marc headed across the lawn to join them.