Page 118 of I'm Watching You

The Guardian stepped closer. Greenland’s hands were inches from his feet. This son of a bitch was going down. Moving quickly, he grabbed the Guardian’s ankle and yanked as hard as he could. The Guardian fell backward and hit the ground hard, grunting in pain as his ribs connected with a stump. The gun flew off into the darkness.

The Guardian’s pain gave Greenland satisfaction and hope. He started to crawl away. If he could get to the thick of the woods around them, he could hide.

The Guardian wrestled his body to a sitting position. His breathing was ragged and labored. With a grunt, he started to crawl around and look for the gun. He couldn’t find it.

Greenland clawed at the dirt and dragged his useless leg behind him. ‘Jesus, save me.’

Get to the woods. Get to the woods.

Greenland looked back and saw the Guardian chasing him. Determination had hardened the set of his jaw.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Greenland muttered. His knee burned. His lungs ached with the effort of breathing.

The Guardian’s gait was uneven, but his two good legs easily overtook Greenland.

The Guardian kicked Greenland in the head. The blow cracked teeth and robbed him of the air in his lungs. Greenland rolled on his back. He tasted blood and spit out a tooth.

Every nerve in his body screamed.

‘You’re not getting away from me,’ the Guardiangrowled. He went back to the van, retrieved a machete, then hurried back to again kick Greenland, this time in the side. Ribs shattered. Greenland was near passing out when the Guardian planted his booted foot on his left forearm.

The Guardian ground the bottom of his boot into the tender flesh of Greenland’s arm. ‘Retribution is mine.’

‘Why?!’ Greenland shouted.

The Guardian didn’t answer. Instead, he raised the machete high over his head. The blade caught the moonlight before it came down and sliced through the wrist’s flesh and narrow bone.

Greenland screamed until his throat felt raw. He pissed on himself. His own blood pooled around his body, dampening the ground under him.

The Guardian held up the severed hand and howled with satisfaction.

That was Greenland’s last image before he passed out.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Thursday, July 10, 5:30A.M.

Warwick was operating on next to no sleep. Zack had been up half the night running down leads on the Turner/Saunders murders. He’d been going over Saunders’s phone record and studying Kendall Shaw’s news tape from Monday. So far, he’d come up empty-handed. And the brass was getting very antsy. If an arrest wasn’t made soon, jobs were going to be lost.

They’d left the office at fourA.M.Warwick had headed to the gym for a quick forty-five-minute workout that he hoped would at least get his blood flowing and sustain him through the day.

The gym had been dark when he had arrived, so he had used his key and let himself in. Now he pounded the punching bag, driving the full weight of his frustration into it. Kendall Shaw had called him four times yesterday, trying to get a quote for her next report. He had refused her once and had told her not to call again. But she had.

The woman didn’t understand the wordno. She was a pain in the ass. And still he’d imagined Kendall Shaw walking toward him with her hair flowing around her shoulders and wearing only a red silk robe. He’d pictured her dropping the robe in a puddle around her feet and inthe soft moonlight lying down for him and opening her legs. Moaning with pleasure, he had straddled her and cupped her full white breasts. She had smiled up at him, begged him to take her, and he’d driven his hard cock into her.

The fantasy had left him hard and restless.

‘Shit,’ Warwick grumbled before he smacked the bag one last time.

He finished his workout and hit the showers. After a quick shower, he dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and slicked back his still-wet hair. Gym bag in hand, he headed into Pete’s office. He’d promised to spar with one of Pete’s fighters on Saturday, but at the rate things were going, he wasn’t going to make it. Everyone would be living at the station until the killer was found.

He moved down the dim hallway past the dozens of black-and-white photos that spanned two decades. The images were of Pete’s fighters. Some were taken during fight matches, others were publicity head shots, but all of Pete’s fighters were on the wall. Pete took pride in his fighters – his family, as he’d often called them. Warwick glanced at his own picture taken when he was eighteen. He grimaced, amazed he’d ever been that young.

He knocked on the office door, which was ajar, thinking maybe Pete had slipped in while he was working out. ‘Pete?’

The door swung open. The lights were off in the office. Warwick flipped them on.

Like always, Pete’s dark wooden swivel chair sat in front of a large desk that butted against the wall. The desk wasa mess, covered with papers, newspapers, books, and, in the center, a state-of-the-art computer, his only concession to the modern world. Pete updated his computer every year and had the latest software on it. Above the desk on the wall hung a bulletin board covered with news clips covering the charity events Pete had hosted in the last few years. And there were more photos.

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