Page 102 of Lucky's Trouble

The guy curses but walks over, taking Tigger’s phone. “You’re not even—”

“Hand over your gun and my phone.”

His eyes widen when he looks up from the phone to see the barrel of a gun pointed at his head. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m dead either way.” With the speed of a professional, he reaches for his holster, but Tigger’s bullet reaches him right between the eyes first.

“So far, this is going swimmingly,” Raunchy says, making everyone chuckle.

“Now, how do we get through the gate?” Rigger asks.

“You got a drill?” Eazy asks.

“Yeah. Right here.” I reach into the toolbox and pull out a small cordless drill.

“Allow me.” Eazy crackles his knuckles, takes the drill, and climbs over everyone to get to the back door of the van. He pops it open and walks over to an electrical box. Opening the door, he drills a hole into something and pulls a latch open. Then he walks over to the sliding gate and gives it a push, opening it right up.

“That’s why we call him Eazy. He makes everything look easy,” Disciple says.

“Let’s go.” Eazy hops back in the van but doesn’t bother closing the door. It’ll save us precious seconds when we get up the driveway and rush the house.

I shoot Satyr a quick message, giving him the go-ahead to shut down the cameras. He replies with a thumbs up, and I store my phone away before reaching for my Glock.

The mansion is more absurd in person than on the computer screen. Jeremiah must be trying to make up for something in his life because this place screams insecurity. The stucco boxy mansion is massive, and the landscapers didn’t lean into the desert vibe at all. In fact, they went tropical, which makes the whole property look out of place and gaudy.

We file out, pairing off and going every which way to find the guards before they find us. Rigger and I take the front entrance, Riot and Dutch following since there’s a higher probability of running into problems from that door.

The guard standing just inside the front door is quick to raise his hands in the air and surrender, as are two of the domestic staff buffing the white tile floors. We pat them down, strip the guard of his weapons and radio, and make sure the other two aren’t armed.

The inside of this place assaults all my senses. The douche made this place as miserable as possible with a sterile bleach scent, stark white walls and tile with gold detailing, and an extremely cold temperature.

Dutch and Riot walk the three outside, where they’ll sit on the front steps with zip ties around their wrists and ankles. Meanwhile, Rigger and I slowly work our way through the house, clearing rooms as we go. Footsteps pounding on the tile put us on alert, so we dive into rooms on either side of the hallway and wait until they get closer.

I peer around the doorway out with my gun aimed forward, spotting two guards. They’re ready for me and fire first. I duck back in, narrowly avoiding my head being blown off. Sweat beads on my forehead as Rigger holds up three fingers. He counts down, and at one, we both lean out of our doorways and fire. Rigger hits the guy on the left in the shoulder, and I nail the one on the right in the leg. We aren’t going for kill shots; we need their intel.

My guy drops to the ground, screaming, and his gun goes skidding across the floor. Rigger’s guy returns fire with his left hand, but he obviously hasn’t done training with that hand, so his shots are all over the place. Rigger fires again, sending a bullet into the other shoulder. His gun falls to the ground with a clink before he goes down completely.

We collect the guns, tucking them away before pulling out a couple more pairs of zip-tie cuffs and getting the two injured men secured.

“Where’s Jeremiah?” I ask.

“We don’t keep track of his every move,” Rigger’s guy says through gritted teeth. Both his wounds are through and throughs, so he’ll live. “You have to call an ambulance; he’s bleeding out.”

I note the pool of blood under my guy’s leg. Kneeling in front of him, I undo his belt and pull it free from his pant loops. “This should stop the bleeding long enough for us to get out of here, but only if you tell us where your boss is.”

His nostrils flare as he debates. Jeremiah must run a tight ship if he isn’t immediately choosing his life over giving his boss up.

I note the gold band on his finger. “Your wife okay with you dying?”

“I’m dead either way,” he says, his chest heaving.

“That’s the second time I’ve heard that tonight.” I press the tip of my gun into the bullet wound on his thigh, making him cry out. “At least with my option, you have a chance. You can pack your wife up, kids if you got ’em, and run. Or you can bleed out right here and now. Up to you.”

“He’s downstairs,” Rigger’s guy spits out.

Even though he’s not the one who spilled the intel, I still slip the belt above the wound and cinch it tight. These guys don’t deserve to go down for doing their job.

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