Page 84 of The Prez

“Slow down. Who are you talking about? Start from the beginning.”

He takes a deep breath but talks quickly. “I can’t slow down, Prez. He looks like he’s about to skip town. He went inside Kit’s house and came back out with bags. I recognized him at a light and figured I’d better find out where he was going and report back, but I’m here and he’s fucking leaving,Prez. I’m in my car, so I can grab him. If I’m gonna grab him, I need to do it now.” He pauses and says, “Prez, it’s that fucking guy, Brock.”

My blood immediately starts boiling and I snarl into the phone. “No, Don. He’s mine. Keep eyes on him, but don’t touch him. I’m on the way.”

“I got it, Prez. I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, Prospect. You did good.”

He breathes out a hard breath. “Thanks, Prez.”

Hanging up, I jab my finger into the down button on the elevator. “Stay here. I’ll send the prospect when I get to that house. I’ll call if I need some backup.”

Jace nods. “You got it, Prez.”

Once I’m outside the hospital, I pull my keys from my packet and jog over to the SUV.

When Zeke and Jace came to the hospital room earlier with a change of clothes for me, I snarled as I snatched the items away. They brought me my riding clothes—a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and my heavy riding boots. “I don’t know how to pick out clothes, Prez,” Zeke said. “You see I only wear jeans and t-shirts. So that’s what you got.”

I was pissed to not have my dress clothes. But now, I’m grateful. There’s no way I could have fucked Brock up the way I want to with a pair of loafers that have no grip. These boots will allow my feet to grip the ground as I’m beating Brock’s ass. They’ll do some real damage as I’m stomping him out the way he did Omari.

Once I’m behind the wheel, I gun it to the address I still have in my phone for Kit. The GPS says it’s ten minutes away and I make it in five.

I spot Don in his car, parked down the street from the townhouse that Kit lived in. When Don spots me, he nods, then drives off without a backward glance.

After I throw the car in park, I march to the door, myhands shaking with barely suppressed rage. My anger is bubbling just below the surface at the thought of being so close to the man that hurt Omari so badly, but I know if I kick the door in, he’ll have time to hide or find a way out. Instead, I try the knob first, hoping it’s unlocked. If it’s not, I’ll kick the fucker down.

The knob turns in my hand and I smile triumphantly. I push inside, scanning around quickly. Bags are packed by the door, along with a few boxes. I hear rummaging around in one of the rooms in the back.

I’m inspecting the interior of the house, about to head in the direction I hear the noise when Brock walks from the back of the townhouse, arms full of clothes with the hangers still attached. He stops when he spots me standing in the doorway, his eyes as round as saucers. In a flash, I spot the scratches on his neck, his busted nose and fat lip. My lip curls thinking about what he did to earn those injuries.

As quick as a flash, he drops his clothes and runs to the living room, knocking things over as he does. I take off after him, trying to grab him. He picks up a small vase from the table and throws it at me. I duck, but it clips me on the head before I can avoid it altogether. I growl in rage and hop over the table, reaching for him. He ducks under my arms and takes off to the dining room, putting the dining table between us.

“What the fuck, man?” he asks, voice shaky. “Get the fuck out of here! I didn’t do nothing!”

“That busted lip says different, bitch. When I get my fucking hands on you,” I growl, “you’re going to wish you’d skipped town before I showed up.”

He hustles around the table as I make a move to grab him, but my fingers slip off his collar. With a roar, I flip the table, pinning him against the wall. I reach across and grab him bythe front of his shirt, tossing him across the room and into the coffee table.

“Get up, bitch,” I roar, charging over to him so I can stomp his fucking face in.

He scrambles up and takes off like a shot, darting out the door before I can catch him. The fucker tosses his bags to obstruct my path and when I finally get past them, he’s behind the wheel of his car, taking off out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell.

With a snarl, I race to my SUV, climb behind the wheel and speed after him. The sun has set and few people are on the road. Brock is driving some piece of shit beater and I have no problem catching up with him. He weaves up and down side streets, turning haphazardly. A few times he almost spins out and I try to ram his car, but he manages to right himself quickly and darts away.

But his luck runs out. When we hit a straightaway on Highway 12, I put my foot on the gas and gain on him. He tries to weave back and forth over the solid yellow lines, but I keep driving straight, knowing it’s only a matter of time before I’m close enough to nudge him into spinning out.

When he tries to put on more speed, I catch up and bump into the back of his car. Brock swerves but manages to stay on the road. That doesn’t matter. I catch up with him again and bump into the side of his car, doing one of those spin maneuvers the cops always brag about. Highway 12 is bracketed by deep forests, but enough space for a car to slide through without too much hindrance. I watch as his car drifts through some trees, but eventually slams up against one and comes to a stop not far from the road.

I stomp on the brakes and back up quickly to where he crashed, not wanting to give him a chance to run deeper into the woods. It’s too dark out to track him down and thatmotherfucker won’t get away from me tonight. He won’t leave these woods alive.

When I pull up to the wreckage, the front of the car illuminated, I see Brock still behind the wheel, holding his head where it’s bleeding. While I have him in my sights, I pick up the phone and make two calls. One to Officer Chance, the cop on our payroll.

“Chance,” he says when he picks up.

“It’s Prez. I need you to come down to mile marker eighteen on Highway 12. There’s been a car accident and someone’s dead.”

“You got a body?” he asks in his country accent as I hear rustling over the phone.

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