Page 85 of Destroyed With You

Think, dammit, think.

“Get on!”

The voice was Renly’s, and he gestured to the back of the Ducati. Winston didn’t hesitate. He got on, grabbed hold of Renly, and prayed that this was the miracle he needed as the other man shot off after the van like a rocket.

They didn’t talk—they couldn’t talk—and it was all Winston could do to hang on for dear life as Renly swerved desperately in and out of traffic, trying not to lose the van, but also to not get too close and draw attention.

The whip of the air was bringing Winston’s senses back. His skin felt raw, and he knew that he’d been somewhat singed. It could have been worse, though. He could be dead.

Linda, he realized, believed that he was.

Linda. His Linda.

It was Hawthorne. It had to be. And Winston was going to kill the bastard with his own hands, and watch the life drain out of that prick.

Finally the van pulled into the driveway of a shitty little house in—hell, he didn’t even know where they were. On a street lined with shitty houses. The kind of neighborhood where everyone minded their own business and the primary employer was the street.

“We walk from here,” Renly said, killing the engine as three people got out of the van. Winston recognized Hawthorne with two others.

“Get her settled for me, then make yourselves scarce,” Hawthorne said. “My old friend, Linda, and I need to have a little chat.”

“Any chance you’re armed?” Renly said.

“Ruger LCP,” Winston said. It was small, a .380. But it was reliable and it would work in a pinch. It had a clip, and was snug in the waistband of his jeans, his go-to weapon when he wasn’t on the job.

“You?”

“A Glock 19,” he said. “I keep it tucked into the compartment under the seat.” He opened the seat in demonstration, revealing the small Glock 9mm that barely fit.

“Good,” Winston said. “Call for backup, then do something about the two who are heading for the house. Careful, they might not be alone.”

“Not my first rodeo.”

“Right.”

“You’re going for her on your own? Let me cover you.”

Winston shook his head. “For all we know they’ve got monitoring equipment. If they see us before we get Linda, we’re dead, and so is she. You want to help? Take them out. Agree?”

“Affirmative.”

They waited low by the bushes as the two thugs entered the house and Hawthorne went into the garage. For the briefest of moments, Winston saw her there, strapped to a chair, her tear-stained face breaking his heart. He knew what she was feeling—not just scared for herself, but believing that he’d died in the explosion—and he was damned if she was going to feel it any longer than she had to.

Slowly, he circled the house. He needed a way to infiltrate the garage without Hawthorne seeing or hearing him. But he also needed to move fast. Hawthorne was the kind to enjoy drawing out the kill, but in the end, he would kill.

Bottom line, Winston needed to move quickly, and he needed a clean shot. He had one chance. Miss the target, and Hawthorne would ensure that Linda was dead in a heartbeat.

One shot.

He crept around the perimeter, searching. He just needed a way in. Some way to get him a direct line of sight to Hawthorne.

A clear shot for a kill.

But there was nothing. Not on the front of the garage. Not on the western wall. Not on the back.

Then he reached the side of the garage that abutted the back yard. And there it was.

At some point, the home’s resident had owned a dog. A big dog that used the garage as dog house.