Page 103 of Deadly Force
He screams. High-pitched. Pathetic. Pain explodes across my chest, sharp, blinding. Something tears. Not subtle. Not a strain.
A sickening rip, like Velcro shredding under skin.
Hot pain flares through my pec, stealing breath and strength. My arm’s half-dead already.
The sound feeds my rage. I hit him again. Temple.Then again. Jaw. His eyes roll back. Pupils blow wide. His limbs go slack beneath me. Still breathing. Barely. I don't wait. Can't afford to.
Lawrence's still cowering in the corner, shaking like a leaf. Eyes wide with terror as he watches what I just did to his partner. "Don't," he whimpers as I turn toward him. "Please, I didn't?—"
Every step jars the injury. I shift my stance, adjusting my balance, moving tight and compact to protect my left side. The pain throbs like a second heartbeat.
I'm on him in three strides. Grab him by the shirt, haul him up, and slam him against the wall. His head bounces off concrete with a satisfying crack.
I use my right arm. The left won't take that kind of strain again.
"You didn't what?" I snarl in his face. "Didn't help tie her up? Didn't help bring her down here? Didn't help plan her murder?”
He's blubbering now. Tears streaming down his face. "I have a family. It would have destroyed them."
"You sold her out."
"Please—"
My body screams for me to stop. To breathe. I don’t. I shift my weight and drive my knee into his solar plexus. Clean, effective, doesn’t rely on upper body strength.
He doubles over, gasping, retching. Then I grab his head and introduce it to the wall one more time.Hard enough to put him out. Hard enough to give him nightmares.
He slides down the wall like a broken doll. Both threats neutralized.
I stagger slightly. My pec’s locking up, shooting pain down my ribs and shoulder.
I turn back to Brooke. She's still tied to the chair, still bleeding, still watching me with those wide, traumatized eyes.
The rage drains out of me in an instant, replaced by something softer. More urgent.
I drop to one knee. Can’t risk putting pressure on the left side. It’s screaming already.
I pull out my knife to cut the old internet cable she’s been bound with.
My hands are shaking now—not from fear, but from the adrenaline crash. "Are you hurt?" I ask, my voice rough from the fury that just burned through me.
She shakes her head, but I can see the lie in her eyes. She's hurt. Maybe not physically broken, but hurt in ways that matter more.
I slice through the last of the fiber and she collapses into me. The impact makes my chest seize. Pain flares so hard my vision tunnels. I fight it. Breathe through my teeth and hold her anyway.
"I've got you," I whisper into her hair. "I've got you, and I'm not letting go."
Brooke
Caleb pulls back just enough to look at me, forehead resting against mine, his hand still locked at the back of my neck. “Who did this?”
I shrug. “Does it matter?”
His brow knits and he gestures to the knife on the floor. “Yeah. I want to know whose thumbs to cut off before I call the cops.”
I don’t laugh. I don’t get time to.
Officers pour into the room. Confused, loud, and aiming their guns directly at the biggest threat in the room.
