Page 51 of S.O.S. Billboard

He reached the van, and got his fingers on the handle on the driver’s side door just as the light changed. That’s when he got his first look into the front seat, and noted that Marin wasn’t there. But the driver and his friend—both skanky looking white dudes with long stringy hair—were fumbling for their weapons.

Billboard yanked open the door, grabbed the driver by the back of the neck before the man could get his hands on his piece, and dragged him out of his seat, throwing him to the ground.

He leaned over and punched his adversary twice in the head before—

“Stop.” A whiny voice sounded from behind him.

Billboard looked up and over his shoulder.

Ugly-ass perp number two in the van had slid into the driver’s seat and had his gun trained on Billboard with a shaky hand.

“Let him go or I’ll shoot you,” the guy cried. “I swear I will.”

It appeared like the volatile asshole had never handled a weapon before, which in Billboard’s experience made the man extremely dangerous.

Billboard slowly stood up; his arms raised. “I’m stepping away,” he assured the guy. “But I’m not the only one you have to worry about. It’s in your best interest to put the gun down and surrender. My team, who you don’t want to mess with, is only seconds behind me.”

The guy looked scared and undecided. Billboard was about to rattle the would-be shooter’s cage even more when something distracted him; movement on the van’s roof in Billboard’s periphery vision.

While maintaining what he hoped was a conciliatory posture, he let his eyes slowly move upward. He didn’t want to alert the gun-wielder that…

Yup. O’Shea was right above the perp.

What was she…?

Oh, hell no.

She was counting down on her fingers from five, lowering each one slowly.

His body tensed when she got to one, not knowing what to expect.

O’Shea gracefully but powerfully swung herself off the roof while hanging onto the gutter lip. She launched herself inside the van, striking the man’s chest solidly with both feet.

The perp went backward, flat on the bench seat.

His gun flew onto the floor.

O’Shea went to her knees and straddled the guy’s prone body, pummeling his head with her fists.

Billboard was about to go to her aid when the first man he’d downed grabbed his ankle and…

“Not happening,” Billboard growled at the perp’s ineffectual tug. It took more than some hundred-and-twenty-pound weakling to drag him to the ground. He kicked the man’s arm with his free foot, hissing. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay still.”

The guy smartly complied.

He’d just turned back to see if O’Shea needed his assistance, when that fucking time-bomb of a cop walked up, his weapon pulled. He aimed directly into the van.

“Stop right there,” the officer yelled, not sparing a glance for Billboard, but speaking directly to O’Shea’s back.

Billboard snarled. Nobody aimed a gun at O’Shea. Nobody.

He took two steps forward, readying to —

“Fucking Murphy,” O’Shea’s voice rang out with derision. “It’s you, isn’t it.” There was no question in her voice as she made the assertion, simply distaste.

Murphy twitched. “Who are you and how do you know me?” he asked in a tone that Billboard didn’t like.

It was time for an intervention.

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