Chapter 33
We were five minutes into the drive when Wilson broke the silence.
“You snatch Remy and let me take care of clean-up.”
No fucking way.
“Wilson—”
“You’re gonna snatch and go, Rhode. Remington’s been away from you and his mother for three hours. The kid’s gotta be scared. Onward from that, you don’t want him seeing any more than what he’s seen.”
“Fuck!”
Fuck.
Sheer force of control stopped me from slamming my fist against the back of the seat in front of me.
No matter what it takes, Rhode, just bring him home.
With no choice, I agreed.
Fifteen minutes later my assent meant nothing when all hell broke loose.
I was counting down the seconds.
Wilson was hoofing it up the heavy terrain and Davis was coming down. I needed to give them time to get close to the end of the trail Kiki had given directions to.
When their five minutes was up I started down the logging road and shoved all thoughts of Remington and Brooklyn out of my mind.
Uncluttered.
Cold.
Calculated.
I couldn’t afford to remember a smile, a giggle, a ‘hey dad’ to cloud my mind. I couldn’t remember the nights my son had asked me to read to him, or the mornings we’d made breakfast together, or the games of football we’d played.
Detached.
But detachment felt so fucking wrong when all I wanted was my boy close.
The slight weight of my Sig felt right, natural, familiar.
Just another day at work.
But I couldn’t get myself to believe the lie as I scanned the dirt for fresh tire tracks. So far there were none. No shoe prints, no disruption, and the hair on the back of my neck started to tingle. No car parked near the switchback.
There was no sign anyone had recently walked this path. If this wasn’t an exchange and Wilson hadn’t verified the files on the drive I would’ve turned back.
Something wasn’t right. Which made my trigger finger twitchy.
A twig snapped. My focus zeroed and I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Muscle memory kicked in and I raised my gun.
Tug Anderson stepped out from behind the thick brush and trees with his gun pointed at my chest. Kiki and Remington followed behind.
“Stupid fucking bitch!” Tug snarled.
He could’ve been talking about Kiki, Brooklyn, his mother, or the Virgin Mary and I wouldn’t have been able to give it a millisecond of thought when all my concentration was on my son and the silver strip of duct tape over his mouth.
Deadly intent crept into my veins.
Remy was on his feet frozen solid, Kiki was standing next to him with her bitch-ass hand on his shoulder.
No blood visible.
Big, wide, scared-as-fuck eyes staring at me.
“Where’s my drive?”
“Let Remington come to me and I’ll toss it to you.”
Tug swung his arm and pointed the gun at Remy. “Not on his life.”
I saw red and my vision blurred.
Somewhere in a faraway part of my brain that wasn’t determining where I was going to place my bullet—brain or heart—I heard a small whimper and Kiki moved closer to Remy.
“This isn’t going to go your way, Anderson, as long as you’re pointing a gun at my son. Swing that back my way and—”
“Your son? What the fuck, Kiki?”
Kiki didn’t answer and gave zero fucks what Tug was bitching about.
“I got your drive. Give me my son and we all walk away.”
“Where’s Desi?”
“Far’s I know on her way to Montana.”
Remington jerked away from Kiki. I saw the surprise in Tug’s eyes and his hand dropped, intent clear.
Kiki lunged.
I squeezed the trigger and three loud gunshots rang out.
Then utter silence.
In that moment I died a thousand deaths as red plumed from the gaping chest wound right before Kiki fell to her knees. I was jerked out of my stupor and sprinted. Without stopping I scooped up Remington, swung him up into my arms, and ran.
Three gunshots.
Mine. Tug’s. And the other had to be from Wilson or Davis.
“I got you, son.”
He didn’t answer.
“You’re safe, bud.”
He said nothing. Not that he could with motherfucking tape over his mouth.
I continued running.
I ran until blue and red lights flashed in the distance. The first car sped by, the second didn’t stop either. The third pulled to the side and Brasco was behind the wheel. The SUV barely rolled to a stop when I opened the passenger door and jumped in.
My gun dug into the small of my back where I’d mindlessly shoved it on my way to Remy.
“Hospital?”
“Welshes’,” I huffed.
“Rhode—”
“Welshes’.” I growled the two syllables and Remy jumped.
Fucking shit.
Brasco executed a three-point turn while I gently pulled the tape from Remy’s mouth.
“Daddy!” he shouted and twisted his body with more force than I thought possible.
“Whoa, son. I got you.”
Remington didn’t stop until his knees were in my lap, his little boy chest was pressed to mine, and his face was shoved into my throat.
Then his body rocked with violent sobs. His whimpers filled the car and tears wet my skin.
Only then did I take a breath.
Remy was safe.
Tug was dead—my bullet pierced his skull.
Kiki was…
Fuck.
The woman had stepped in front of a bullet for my son and I didn’t know what to feel about that. So I settled on grateful and put her out of my mind.
“You’re safe, Remy.”
I tightened my arms around my son.
“Safe, son.”
He nodded his head but he pushed deeper.
“Love you, bud. Love you so much, son.”
Remy was silent.