Page 189 of The Billionaire Boss and the Barista

The white-haired man could have been sauntering in a garden for all the emotion he showed. He didn’t make a mistake. Not until he looked up and saw Garrett standing in his path.

Their suspect had kept his eyes on what he perceived to be the bigger threat, his three well-trained friends. Little did he know the biggest threat was him.

He’d taken advantage of the man’s distraction to cut off his escape route.

“Hello, Inspector Folsom,” Garrett said, grabbing his arm. “I believe you’ve met my wife.”

For one long moment, Folsom didn’t react. He simply stared at Garrett, nothing in his expression to give himself away.

Garrett had been expecting a denial—not the telescoping baton the older man whipped out, attacking without wasting time on protests.

He blocked the overhand blow, but Folsom was already running. Pivoting, he gave chase, pounding after his quarry.

He was at least fifty yards ahead of the other guys. Garrett ran for all he was worth, chasing Folsom through a warren of tiny streets. But the slippery older man knew the area better, cutting through the less touristic parts of town before bursting onto a flagstone-lined walkway crammed between two buildings.

Folsom was spry for his age, but Garrett was younger and faster. He grabbed the white-haired man by the shoulder, spinning him around.

The fake insurance investigator managed to twist away. But he knew he wasn’t going to get away now. He did the only thing that could give him any sort of leverage—he took a hostage.

“Come here,” Folsom yelled in English, snatching up the closest person to them—a small boy who’d been sitting on the ground with his back against the wall separating the walkway from a steep drop into the ocean.

Small colorful packages of Chiclets went flying—the boy must have been selling them. The child screamed, a high piercing sound that penetrated his eardrums like a stiletto.

Garrett flinched as Folsom pivoted and held the child in front of his chest like a human shield.

Fuck. He was still alone, the lack of footsteps telling him the others had taken a wrong turn.

He put up his hands. “I don’t have a weapon,” he lied, acutely aware of the knife strapped to his utility belt. “Let the kid go.”

Folsom looked him dead in the eye. “I didn’t do anything wrong. It was just a job—scare your girlfriend so she’d move out. That was it. I didn’t hear from Fletcher again until he called me last night, asking me to get him papers so he could get out of the country under a new name. I came to deliver them, but he didn’t answer.”

He lowered the boy a fraction to check his reaction.

Garrett narrowed his eyes, recognizing the lie for what it was.

Fletcher had called this man to fix his problems. But Folsom must have smelled the desperation on his former partner. Garrett was willing to bet that the bag Folsom was holding had been packed by Fletcher—and held a hell of a lot of cash.

“Let me guess,” Garrett began, keeping his hands up. “He was dead when you got there.”

Folsom, or whatever his name was, knew no one was buying his story.

Garrett could see the moment of decision in his eyes.No!

He was already moving when Folsom hurled the boy over the edge of the rampart.

The sound that came out of his mouth was so loud his ears didn’t process it. Garrett lunged after the kid, who was screaming bloody murder.

His hand grazed the child’s fingers…and hemissed.

The bottom of his chest felt like it had fallen out. Until he realized that while the child disappeared over the edge, the high-pitched screaming continued.

Garrett slammed against the waist-high wall of the rampart, looking over the edge even as Folsom’s running footsteps signaled hisescape. He didn’t consider going after him. His only thought was for the child, who was still crying out.

The cliffside here sloped down at an angle. The kid had slid down but managed to find a foothold in the patchy earth. His little brown hand was clutching a clump of weeds half a story down.

“Garrett!” Rainer was sprinting to him.

“Over here,” he yelled back, swinging a leg over the lip of the waist-high wall.

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