Page 125 of Hot Momosa

Stuart shot to his feet, grabbed the back of my shirt, and hauled me upright. I didn’t have time to prep or think or look down. One second, I was on the neighboring roof, the next, I was flying through the air.

I rolled to soften the landing. It didn’t work. I’d left a layer or two of elbow skin on the concrete.

Artie screamed high and loud. The poodles barked in almost the same pitch and volume. Men shouted from inside and outside my condo. It was pure madness.

And then it stopped.

“Back off.” Robert Becker had his arm around Artie’s neck. The taller, thinner man’s body wasn’t much of a human shield, but the gun Becker had to Artie’s head made up for it.

Damn it.

“Where are you, Marchionni?” Robert looked from one man to the next. Most were at least partially hidden behind my outdoor furniture and plants.

I didn’t dare move and draw attention to myself. Other than the shadows of a large potted palm, I had no cover. It would take Becker a millisecond to put a bullet in me.

Stuart motioned for me to keep quiet. “Over here. Come and get me or do you only like scaring women and babies?”

His impression of me was close, maybe a little too close. I wondered if he’d practiced.

“I wouldn’t have had to resort to such a thing if you would have stayed away from Dahlia.” He continued to scan the deck for me.

I had no doubt he’d kill me given half a chance, but I needed answers. “I don’t get it. Blowing me up makes sense, but why Dahlia and Gunnar?”

Becker laughed. “I didn’t want her or the kid dead. Why do you think I didn’t trigger the bomb?”

Stuart impersonated me again. “But you shot her.”

“That wasn’t me.” He glanced from my general vicinity to Stuart’s. “Either someone else wants her dead or she wasn’t the target. Although, the sympathy vote would have sewed up the election for Waylon. Maybe I will kill her once I’m finished with you.”

His words sent a shiver down my spine. Not the part about killing me. The guy was seriously delusional if he thought he was walking out of here.

Was Enzo the target and Dahlia got in the way?

He jostled Artie. ”Come out or I’ll kill your friend.”

Artie made a sound somewhere between a wounded cat and a whimper.

Eugene let out a bark that sounded more Rottweiler than poodle and launched his furry little body at Becker’s leg.

Fifi and Cupcake got in on the action, jumping forward, nipping, and darting away.

The guy cried out, tightened his grip on Artie, and kicked at the dogs.

“Drop the weapon!” someone called from the other side of the deck.

Becker fired a shot, but it went wide. Way wide, as in it hit the grill six feet away.

One of the team members moved behind Becker, but Eugene seemed to think he was a second attacker and chased him back several steps. Seeing such a large man intimidated by a tiny dog would have been a laugh riot on YouTube, but under the circumstances, it sucked.

At the rate we were going, it would only be a matter of time before Becker shot Artie or kicked one of the poodles over the railing.

Artie screeched again. Only this time, it wasn’t in fear it was more like a distraction. He used his height to his advantage, twisted his torso, and went limp.

Between the weirdly effective move and the piranha-like attacks from the Three Poodle-teers, Becker lost his balance.

The guard behind him moved fast, and smashed the butt of his gun against Becker’s temple. Both men went down.

I scrambled to Artie’s unmoving form. “Artie? Can you hear me?”

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