Rev It Up (Black Knights Inc. #3)(81)
“I can see those wheels turning in that pretty head of yours,” he taunted, still herding her toward the kitchen, “but I can assure you there’s no escape. You see,” he moved his free hand up to his shoulder in order to remove the duffel bag she hadn’t realized he was carrying, “I have all the things that go bang-bang right here in this little bag. That guy I just popped sure liked his guns, didn’t he?”
Oh, Jake. I’m so sorry. So unbelievably sorry you only got to be a father for one day… “What was he expecting? A zombie apocalypse? Or did you guys know I was coming?” Johnny cocked his head and eyed her speculatively before shrugging. “Doesn’t matter. Because along with confiscating his little arsenal, I was also careful to remove all the knives in your kitchen.”
She glanced over her shoulder to see her empty knife block.
“So, since I’m the only one with a weapon,” he waved his pistol from side-to-side when she turned back to him, “I’m calling the shots.”
Her hip bumped against the edge of her kitchen table, halting her retreat.
“Now turn that chair around,” he ordered, “and have a seat. It’s time for the games to begin.”
“Mama?” Franklin called, and she was forced to admit she was out of options. Her only hope now was that she could keep Johnny occupied long enough for Rock to get here and save her son from whatever fate Johnny had planned for him.
Oh, she knew that line about Franklin being fine as long as she played nice was nothing but bullcrap. From everything she’d heard about Johnny Vitiglioni, he wasn’t in the habit of leaving witnesses behind. Of course, he didn’t know the cavalry was on its way.
And she planned to use that to her advantage…
“Mama!”
“Don’t you get out of that bed, young man!” she yelled, hoping her tone sounded stern instead of terrified. “The doctor says you’re supposed to stay in bed, and I swear if you step one foot out of it, I’m giving you a spanking!”
She’d never given Franklin a spanking before, and she hoped the threat of one would scare him enough to make him mind her.
Please, God, she prayed as Johnny smiled evilly, uncoiling a length of rope in his gloved hands, please let him mind me. I don’t want him to see this…
***
The world came back to Jake a little at a time…
First there was pain. Terrible, burning pain in the side of his head.
Then there was light. A weak shaft that fell across his face and hurt his eyes when he opened them to blink in blurry confusion at the fixture burning out in the hallway.
And finally there was realization. He wasn’t dead. He’d been shot. In the head. But he wasn’t dead.
Huh…
Gritting his teeth against the excruciating agony, he reached up and—
Well, that’s good. His muscles actually responded to his command, which meant he wasn’t paralyzed. A fine start…
Running his fingers through his hair, he encountered blood. Lots of it. But there didn’t appear to be any holes. No wet, soggy void for his finger to dip into. His scalp, on the other hand, was a mess. It was ripped in a deep gash and part of it was hanging away from his skull like some sort of gruesome earflap.
Disgusting, to say the least. But in the grand scheme of things, and considering he’d be a corpse if that bullet had hit him one inch to the right, it wasn’t so bad.
He started cataloging the rest of his body parts, testing his limbs, when it suddenly occurred to him just exactly what had happened.
Yes, he’d been shot. That he knew. Case in point: the pool of blood and ripped scalp. But what he’d forgotten for a moment was that he’d been shot inside Shell’s house.
Where she and Franklin…
Sonofabitch!
He pushed up from the hardwood floor and slipped in the puddle of his own blood before managing to gain his footing. Reaching into his waistband, he discovered his pistol was gone and bent to check for his reserve weapon despite the fact that the move sent a thunderbolt of agony blasting through his skull.
Nada. Nothing but an empty leather ankle holster…
Not wasting one moment, he ran toward the closet where he’d stored the rest of the weapons he’d taken from the Black Knights’ armory only to discover his duffel bag missing from the top shelf.
“Fuck a duck!” he hissed, flying across the room, feeling the seconds piling up against him. He skidded to a halt when he saw the scarf draped on the edge of the mirror above the dresser. Barely giving his gruesome reflection a glance—yeah, he could be an extra in a slasher film—he pushed the flap of torn scalp firmly against his skull and then quickly wound the scarf around his head to hold it in place when he remembered…
My knife!
He’d stored an extra KA-BAR beneath the mattress. A second later, he had the thing in hand, its deadly, seven-inch blade glinting in the overhead light as he silently stepped into the hall, cocking his head, listening…
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
How long had he been out? Was he too late to…?
He didn’t get any further in that line of thinking before he bent at the waist and vomited quietly onto the hallway rug. He’d like to say it was the head injury and the accompanying nausea that had him tossing his cookies—and that was certainly part of it—but the real truth of the matter was that the thought of losing his son and the only woman he’d ever loved had his stomach trying to exit his body through his throat.