Page 69 of Dirty Gambit

Carefully, he raised both hands in a show of surrender. His chest rose and fell in rapid pants that were barely audible beneath Travis’s groans as he fought to roll onto his side. His thin body heaved with the force of his coughs. Speckles of blood gushed over his chin and down his jaw, matting the stubble.

“Get up!” the man behind Jaxon snarled.

Gingerly, he did. He pushed off Travis’s heaving chest and rose, never lowering his arms. His hand hurt. Fine rivulets of crimson trickled up the back of his hand where the skin had busted on Travis’s mouth. His middle knuckle had an odd angle to it, a slant that hadn’t been there before, and his entire finger refused to move when he tried to give it a wiggle.

Definitely broken.

He waited for the throbbing pain, but his adrenaline raged too high, too resilient. He knew a broken finger wouldn’t stop him if he got another chance at pummeling the guy.

“Mother fucker!” Travis garbled around a mouthful of blood, spit, and snot. He rolled onto all fours and spat a thick ball of mucus on the ground between his splayed hands. It was the perfect angle for a boot in the ribs or the face. The opportunity passed when he finally staggered to his feet and rounded on Jaxon, eyes a murderous glaze on his battered face.

His nose was definitely broken and the gash in his lip needed stitches. Compared to Jaxon’s broken finger, he looked much worse. It was some gratification.

“I’m going to kill you!” he rasped.

Jaxon was only vaguely aware of his parents, of their muffled cries, the creak, and the crack of their chairs striking the marble. Jaxon’s mother screamed, a hysterical and blood-curdling sound muffled by a wad of cloth, but there was no mistaking her pleas not to hurt her son. His dad yanked on his own fastens, tugging for all he was worth, ripping flesh where rope bit into wrist. Vehement murder glinted in his hazel eyes. Sweat trickled along the lines of his flushed face, plastering his dark curls to his brow. He briefly met Jaxon’s gaze, a short exchange between father and son, and Jaxon knew his father, a normally kind and caring man wanted the bastard dead as much as Jaxon did.

“You’re never going to get your hands on Lena,” he told the man stuffing the hem of his rancid t-shirt across his mouth and nose. “You will never touch her.”

Travis managed to mop up most of the damage, but his nose continued to leak into his mouth, which leaked down his chin in a trickling stream that was creating puddles on the carpet. Murder flashed across his watering eyes as he fished out his gun and aimed.

“You think you can stop me when you’re dead? You can watch from the afterlife as I make her my willing and obedient whore then give her to my crew. Just a few shots of the good stuff and those bitches will do anything I say.”

It was solely the barrel aimed at his parents that kept Jaxon from taking the man down again. Travis knew it. He smirked when all Jaxon could do was bare his teeth.

“Who do you think I should shoot first? Mommy or daddy?” He turned his gun off Jaxon and aimed for his dad. “I think I’ll keep mommy around for a little longer. What do you think? Haven’t had a good milf pussy in a while, especially one in such fine shape.”

Jaxon opened his mouth, no idea what he was going to say, only that he would take the fucker down before he let him anywhere near his mom when something in the air gave a faintpop, no louder than a light bulb going out. A split second later, the man behind his dad swayed. The gun in his hands slipped, striking the floor at his feet with a deafening clatter. A fine, red trickle oozed from the circle right between his eyes. He swayed forward. His knees went out from under him and he hit the marble dead.

“What—?” Travis whirled, but not fast enough before the second man hurtled backwards into the small table behind him.

The impact took out the legs, sending the four-thousand-dollar regency console down with him in a crashing cacophony. His massive body splayed across the carpet amongst the destroyed remains of a crystal vase and several shattered picture frames. Like his companion, a dime-sized hole oozed between his glassy eyes.

Frankie stood in the doorway, a sight in faded jeans and a green, silk blouse and matching headscarf. An FNX-45 tactical rested between her palms, the silencer on the end smoking.

Not questioning his aunt’s unexpected appearance, Jaxon dove for his parents. His broken finger struggled to tug on their bindings. He managed to rip out the gags.

His mother sobbed, thin shoulders trembling. Thick tears washed down her flushed cheeks.

“It’s going to be okay,” he told her.

That only seemed to make her cry harder.

“Not so fast!”

A thin arm shot out and hooked around his neck from behind. He was yanked back and twisted with a speed and strength he never would have expected from a guy he could punt across a yard. But the element of surprise was just what Travis needed when Jaxon found himself a human shield against his aunt’s weapon. A boot took out the back of his kneecap and Jaxon went down hard. His mother screamed behind him. His father cried out, but neither could do more than watch helplessly as a cold, steel barrel planted into the side of Jaxon’s skull.

“It looks like you ignored everything I said, Jaxon,” Travis hissed, twisting his fingers into the back of Jaxon’s t-shirt collar until the fabric tightened against his throat like a noose. “I told you no cops.”

“I’m not a cop,” Aunt Frankie muttered, the gun never wavering. “Let them go.”

“Well, this is awkward then because,” Travis strengthened his hold, making Jaxon gasp for air, “I don’t want to, but also because I feel like I have the advantage here.”

“I’ll kill you before you get a shot off,” Frankie murmured, each word wrapped in serrated steel.

“Maybe, however, at this range, I doubt I’ll miss. Do you really want to see his brains splattered across the wall because that’s what’s going to happen if you don’t lower your gun?”

“Lower the gun, Frankie!” his mom shrieked.

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