Page 87 of Property of Tacoma
“Tacoma.”
No. No, no, no.
Jagger.
Sweet Jagger, who’s already been through too much in his short sixteen years.
“We’re saddling up and heading out to help find the boy,” Mason continues. I hear him talking to someone in the background, then he comes back on the line. “They’ve tracked his phone. He’s in Spencer.”
The breath I’ve been holding whooshes out. “Spencer, Mississippi?”
“Yeah.”
My mind races, calculating the distance. “I’m less than half an hour from there.”
“Cali, no?—”
“Don’t you dare tell me no!” I’m already running toward my RV, my boots pounding against the cracked asphalt. “I’m not going to wait around for something to happen to him. He’s just a kid, Mason! I’m the closest, and I’ll do what I have to do to get him back.”
“Cali, listen to me?—”
“No, you listen!” I wrench open the door, and Panda scurries out of my way with an indignant chitter. “Jagger needs help, and I’m going to help him. End of discussion.”
“Goddammit, Cali?—”
I hang up, tossing my phone onto the counter as I rush to the far wall.
My hands are shaking as I press the hidden button disguised as a light switch.
There’s a soft click, and the entire wall panel slides open, revealing my arsenal.
Guns of every make and model line the shelves—Glocks, Sigs, a couple of AR-15s, even a few grenades I picked up from a client who owed me a favor.
I start grabbing weapons and setting them on the table.
Two Glocks, my favorite Sig Sauer, extra magazines.
My hands move on autopilot, muscle memory taking over as panic tries to claw its way up my throat.
“Fuck,” I whisper, grabbing my tactical backpack and stuffing it with ammunition. Boxes of 9mm, .45 caliber, magazines already loaded and ready.
I strap a scabbard knife to my right thigh, securing it tight.
Then I holster two guns in my thigh holsters, checking to make sure the safeties are on.
I stuff two more guns into the backpack along with the ammo.
Panda chatters at me from his perch on the back of the couch.
I pause long enough to give him a scratch behind his ears. “I’ll be back, buddy. I promise.”
Slinging the backpack over my shoulders, I rush out of the RV and lock the door behind me. My fingers fumble with the keys as I hurry to the back and unlock the toy hauler.
The ramp lowers, and there’s my baby—my sparkly black and hot pink Kawasaki Ninja.
I throw my leg over the seat, fire up the engine, and zoom down the ramp without bothering to put it back up.
There’s no time.
