Page 82 of The Devil Wears Orange
“High school skeet club.”
My body quickly shifts from trembling in fear to shaking from laughter. I’m losing my mind. It’s as simple as that. “Wow. Skeet club and botany,” I say, sounding rather flippant though that’s not what I mean to convey. Still, skeet club is not cool. But I have to admit, Jack looks badass caressing that gun in his hand. Single-handedly taking out someone trying to kill meisbadass and, right now, at this very moment, I conclude Jack is the sexiest man I’ve ever met.
“Jack,” I whisper after I gain control of my misguided giddiness.
If this was a romance novel, this is the part where the hero would sweep me in his arms, kiss me passionately. But, this is my life, and it never comes close to a romance novel. My life is more of a situation comedy, and not the highly-rated, funny kind either. I would play on a Friday night with the other duds.
Suddenly, Jack lands on the ground with a thud, a stranger on top of him, fists raining down.
“Jack!” I scream and attack the man. I claw at him to stop him from pummeling Jack, pulling his hair and his ears, but I’m nothing more than an irritating fly he can swat. Finally, I sweep the ground around me and spot a fallen tree branch. I lift the branch and bring it down on the man’s head with all my strength. He goes limp.
Beneath him, Jack doesn’t move. I throw myself next to him and roll the man off of him. Jack’s eyes are closed and he remains motionless.
“Jack.” I shake him. “Jack,” I say again, caressing his face.
Finally, he opens his eyes, looking stunned. He points to the man passed out on the ground next to him. “How did you do that?”
“Tennis club captain,” I say. “Let’s find Rashid and get to the Bentley.”
Together, we skirt the trees that line the open area. The Bentley is within sight, but getting there may be a problem. We locate Rashid near the water, struggling against one of Levan’s or Banning’s men, who can tell in this mess which bad guy belongs to which bad guy?
“Get to the Bentley,” says Jack, turning away. “I’ll get to Rashid.”
“Jack!” I shout after him, leading him to turn back. “Be careful.” I charge for the Bentley and fall into the driver’s seat. I crank the key already in the ignition. Someone thumps against the back of the vehicle, startling me.
Through the rearview, I catch sight of Jack and Rashid in combat with an armed man. Jack has him in a chokehold while Rashid struggles for the man’s weapon, but then all three drop to the ground and disappear from view. I peer out the window, but all I can discern at the back of the Bentley are three pairs of feet on the ground, rolling on top of one another. Someone grunts.
“He’s out cold,” I hear Jack say then watch as Rashid and Jack scramble to their feet.
Suddenly, Rashid jumps into the passenger side of the Bentley, and Jack opens the back door. A spray of bullets whips past them. Someone yellsGo!But I’ve already got the Bentley moving.
A bullet cracks the windshield.
Chapter 48
Jack grabs the doorhandle, but before he can throw himself into the backseat, the Bentley speeds off.
They left him.
No, notthey. It was Charlotte in the driver’s seat. How could she leave him?
A bullet zips past his head, and he drops to the ground. From his position, it’s unclear who’s shooting at whom, but what’s incontrovertible is that the battlefield is moving toward him. He’s in a dangerous spot, exposed in No Man’s Land. Half crawling, half running, Jack scrambles for cover toward the water, but someone’s onto him and a bullet ricochets beside him. If he doesn’t sprint now, the next slug will hit him.
Racing across, Jack leaps into a boat and ducks. Bullets hiss by and land in the water near him. A shot blasts through the boat, narrowly missing him. Around him, the disorganized shooting gallery between Rashid’s, Banning’s, and Levan’s men, ensues. And what the bloody hell is Levan doing here anyway?
An interlude of quiet follows. Jack pops his head up. Perhaps no one knows he’s there, and they’re not intrinsically shooting at him; he’s merely stuck in the crossfire, an accidental hostage.
A bullet strikes the back of the truck.
“The art,” he whispers to himself, then remembers the truck is bullet-proof.
Flood-lights illuminate the darkness, blinding him.
Over a loudspeaker, a male voice shouts first in Swiss-German then English, “Police. Hold your fire! Hold your fire! You are all surrounded.” The voice is faint at first, growing into a crescendo until, little by little, the shooting subsides. Continuing, the male voice says, “Put down your weapons. Toss them. Hands up high. You, there. I said up.”
Jack reaches a hand up against the blinding light, and his eyes adjust to the scene. Uniformed police are everywhere. The gunmen, pushed to the ground with legs spread wide, are frisked and cuffed.
Jack recognizes the uniform: Swiss police.Not them, again!Why is it that every time they’re involved, something goes horribly wrong?
