Tequila Mockingbird (33 page)

“I’m going to put the phone down,” he whispered to the dispatcher. “Just tell them to hurry the hell up, okay?”

He turned the volume down as much as he dared, mostly to drown out the dispatcher’s increasingly aggressive orders for him to stay on the line. Leaving the phone as close to the jamb as he could without it being stepped on, Forest slowly eased the door inward and peeked outside.

Then he jerked his head back into the dark as soon as he spotted the large bulky shape crawling through the shot-out window.

Forest braved another look as the man nearly tumbled back out. The intruder grabbed at anything he could to anchor himself, snagging the sink’s faucet handle. Water gushed from the spigot when he pulled on it. He grumbled in surprise, then slapped at the elongated handle until it turned off.

From what he could see, the guy crawling through the window wasn’t Rollins. Not unless he’d gained a hundred pounds since he’d been let out. The phone’s screen really didn’t give Forest enough light to see by, and the safe’s sickly green illumination barely extended beyond its own door. The man’s bulk was going to be hard to take down, and Forest couldn’t see if he was armed.

“A gun,” Forest murmured, standing up quickly. “The safe!”

Ignoring the creaks in his knees from crouching on the hard floor, he scrambled to the safe and carefully swung it farther open.

Only to stare at a very disappointing emptiness.

“Not like I know how to fucking shoot a gun, but shit, Con,” he grumbled. “Throw me a damned bone here.”

Going back to the door, he peeked again, trying to see if the man’s hands were free. Since they appeared to be mostly flailing about as he worked to get through the tight space, Forest thought they were empty. From the writhing and the man’s windmilling arms, Forest suspected the heavyset man was stuck.

“Doesn’t mean he can’t have a gun on him.” He chewed on his lower lip, trying to work out a plan. “Think, dude. What the hell am I going to do?”

A knife was out of the question. A wood block of blades was out on the kitchen counter, too far for him to snag one and defend himself against the intruder, and short of grabbing one of the spindly wooden chairs at the table, there wasn’t anything he could really use to bash the man’s head in.

“Crap, Miki can do this, and he’s….” Forest trailed off his thought. “’Cause Miki’s
psycho
. Okay, focus. Do something, Forest. And don’t get shot doing it.”

His phone was nearly out of juice. It’d been pining for the fjords when he’d plugged it in after he retrieved Con’s eye drops from the fridge. With the line open, he’d soon lose not only the squawking dispatcher but any light it could give him. Bending down, he rifled through the partially full shelves lining the walls, looking for something heavy and portable.

There had to be something he could use in the pantry. A Roomba. A brick.
Something
.

His fingers closed over a thick-rimmed large gallon can on the bottom shelf. Picking it up, he huffed under its unexpected weight, and his injured shoulder whined a bit, but he sucked up the pain with a hissing breath. Unwieldy for sure but hefty enough to do some damage if he had enough leverage.

“Got one shot at this, dude.” Forest braced himself and balanced the enormous can against his hip. “Okay.
Go
.”

Barreling out, Forest hefted the can over his head. The pinprick of pain along his shoulder reminded him again about being creased by one of the shotgun pellets, but he kept going.

Forest didn’t know who screamed louder—the man stuck in the window definitely had an elephantine bellow, but his own warbling pitch wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. Either way, he rushed in close and slammed the can down as hard as he could on the intruder’s head.

The man quaked in his prison, his torso twisting about and his arms flying around uncontrollably as he took the shock of pain. He lifted up, nearly perpendicular to the kitchen floor, and his eyes were wide pale moons in his partially shadowed face. Up close, his breath stunk of onions and beer. His body wasn’t much better, and from the wave of aromas coming from his twitching arms, he held a grudge against deodorant in general. His ass wiggled as he kicked at the side of the house, and glass from the broken window fell from the frame.

Forest’s shoulders shook from the hit, and it felt like he’d taken a sledgehammer to a solid granite block. But the can held, and the man groaned, his head lolling back and forth. Forest brought the heavy can up, then hit the man again, silencing his distressed moans.

This time, the can’s thinner sides gave in, and it burst, sending a gush of nacho cheese down the man’s unshaven round face. It pooled in his nostrils, bubbling up when he exhaled. Giving one final twitch, the intruder moaned once more, then slumped down against the kitchen sink. Blood dripped from his waist where he’d cut himself on broken glass, and a red river sprung up from a wide cut on his forehead, fighting the violently orange ooze for space on his stubbled jowls.

A shout of victory welled up from inside Forest’s belly, and he almost let it go, but a chillingly harsh laughing came from the next room, cutting off any celebration and driving a spike of fear into his guts. The glow of a flashlight popped up over the kitchen’s saloon half doors, hitting Forest in the face. Blinking against the harsh light, Forest could just barely see a dark, dangerous shape slicing up into the beam, aimed for his head.

“Shit.” It was all he could get out. Then the gun went off and everything went black.

I
T
SOUNDED
like someone let loose a pack of flying monkeys. There was a high-pitched screeching reminiscent of a hair band and a deep walrus-inspired howl. A mighty thunk echoed out of the kitchen, then a moment later, another weaker thunk. Connor couldn’t imagine what the noises were. Then a thought dawned.

“Fucking Forest.” He swore softly as a man he recognized as Rollins stepped into his line of sight. “God damn it! Forest!”

Rollins was unimpressive. He looked more like Riff Raff than anything else, but his rawboned face turned toward Connor, and there was clearly not a drop of humanity left in the man’s eyes. They burned nearly black, even in the light of his companion’s flashlight. Bringing his own lantern up, Rollins peered over the kitchen’s swinging half door, and his deep chuckle set off every alarm in Connor’s brain.

His Beretta was uncomfortable in his left hand, but Connor didn’t have time to switch it out for the Glock. It wouldn’t have made much of a difference. He’d practiced shooting with his off hand, but he wasn’t a sharpshooter with it. He could hit a target’s inner rings eight times out of ten, and he figured that was all he was going to need if he could get off a clear shot. Connor moved into position.

Spreading his legs to anchor himself, Connor took aim—just as Rollins raised a gun and pointed it over the doors. Its thick, heavy black body was menacing but not as evil as the man’s cackle.

Tamping down the emotions roiling up to choke him, Connor shouted, “Police! Drop it!”

Rollins didn’t even bother to turn. His finger squeezed, and the gun jerked in his hand, the barrel flashing bright in the uneven shadows. With the shot gone, the man twisted and looked over his shoulder, a curling thin smile reaching up to his ears.

Connor took a step into the room, glancing at the other man standing near the window just long enough to verify he was unarmed. Aiming straight for Rollin’s forehead, Connor spoke around the lump of cold fear in his throat. “Put the gun down, Rollins, and get to the floor.”

He couldn’t think about Forest. Not now, but his mind wandered in worry. Connor heard nothing from the kitchen, and his fear grew, sinking its talons into his belly. Forcing himself to shake off his anguish, Connor repeated his warning.

“Drop the fucking gun, Rollins,” he ordered. “Now.”

Rollins responded by lifting his gun up, and Connor pressed the trigger, pulling a few shots out of the Beretta. The man’s body jerked when the powerful round cut through him, one grazing his jaw. Blood splattered the family room’s newly plastered walls, and Rollins stumbled back.

But he didn’t fall.

“Get the fuck down, man!” Rollins’s associate cried out. “He’s a fucking cop! He’s going to kill you!”

Somewhere in the room, the other man whimpered, and Connor tried to pinpoint where he’d gone, but Rollins brought his weapon up again, aiming for Connor’s position.

“I don’t give a shit if he’s a cop. He can die just like his faggot boyfriend,” Rollins replied, and he fired.

Connor slid to land on his knee a few feet in front of where he’d been standing. Anchored to the floor, he steadied his weapon with his cast and let go another burst. This time he hit Rollins square in the shoulder, and the man’s head spun in an
Exorcist
imitation.

And this time, Rollins went down.

The man’s flashlight bobbled about, then hit the ground, its wide beam catching on the kitchen’s entrance. Rollins didn’t come back up, and Connor rose quickly, bringing the Beretta around as he circled the couch he’d cuddled Forest on less than an hour ago.

The kitchen doors swung open, and Connor jerked his gun up, drawing on a new target. His heart stopped, fear grabbing it with cold fingers when he recognized who’d come through the door.

Forest blinked at him, his eyes widening in panic when he spotted Connor’s weapon. Illuminated in the bluish-white beam, Forest looked like an avenging angel, his blond hair bleached silver in the bright light. Bloodied and worn, he held an industrial-sized can of jalapenos against his chest.

Kicking Rollins’s gun away, Connor gasped in relief at seeing Forest. His lover started to move in, but Connor shook his head and motioned to the scrawny small man quivering by the window. He had to keep focused, and if Forest touched him, Connor wasn’t sure if he’d hug him or throttle him for leaving the pantry.

“Let me get that guy taken care of. Watch Rollins,” Connor ordered. “You have my permission to kick his face in if he moves.”

Rollins lay at Forest’s feet, his eyes filled with agony and blood bubbling up from his torn-apart jaw. He writhed, senseless with pain. Clawing at the floor, Rollins mewled, his chest heaving with the simple act of breathing.

Somewhere off in the rain, sirens were drawing in near, and Connor eyed the man by the window before grabbing a roll of duct tape from a pile of building supplies he’d dumped on a side table earlier that week. He tore off a few strips and secured the man’s hands and wrists, then patted his chest with a solid thump before pulling his Glock out from the back of his pants.

“I don’t know if I should kiss you or beat the shit out of you,” Connor muttered, settling for giving Forest a fierce one-armed hug as he kept one eye on Rollins’s twisting body. “I thought I told you to stay in the pantry.”

“Found out I don’t like being told what to do,” Forest admitted softly when Connor risked giving him a brief kiss.

“Yeah, we need to talk about that,” Connor said gently. “You could have been killed.”

“Sure, we can talk about it, and while we’re at it, can we talk about what the fuck you’ve got in that pantry?” Forest hefted the can of jalapenos he’d been holding. “How much fucking nacho cheese does one guy need?”

We held onto each other

In the rain and at the dawn

People told us we wouldn’t make it

Said we’d die off and be gone

I’m here for every step

Every inch of every mile

Down to our very last breath

Till it hurts too much to smile

—
Every Mile

T
HE
CONTRACTOR
kicked ass. Well, and Jules kicked it as much as anyone else, Forest amended.

After three weeks of hard-core renovation and design fights with the decorator, they’d gotten Marshall’s Amp back up and running. No small feat, considering the place looked like an Alderaan diorama by the time Rollins and his crew’d finished with it.

The damage to the outer wall had been extensive, and much of the old brick had to be tossed. Using what could be salvaged, they’d instead broken up the formerly unrelieved wall with colored glass bricks and long windows. It lit up the inside of the coffee shop even before the wood floors and paneling had been stripped down and restained.

Now the coffee shop gleamed with the mod vibe Jules longed for. Deep pinks, greens, and chrome accents, and miles upon miles of pale honey wood. Realigning the counter away from the kitchen door opened the space up even more and made it easier to flow take-out customers out of the shop without tangling with anyone seated at the retro-style lounge chairs Jules found at a discount furniture store. Reupholstered and arranged around low glass and wood tables, they were comfortable, and he eyed one, wondering if he’d been insane when he’d agreed to the pink tweed.

She’d practically begged Forest to let her blow a few thousand dollars on a lava lamp wall sculpture, a six-foot-wide rectangle backlit in changing neon lights. He’d agreed as soon as she’d brought it up, and now he was glad for it. Dominating a formerly dead space near the long wall, the modulating blobs looked… cool.