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“I hadn’t been in the house for more than a week, when—”
“Okay friends. Hands up, and everyone on the floor. Now.”
What the fuck?
Doug turned toward the voice. A gun-wielding man had just burst in through the doors, a Beretta 92 clutched in his hand, waving it wildly around the room.
Doug didn’t hesitate, but followed the barked-out instructions, immediately. He leaned over, grabbed Pixie, and drew her to the ground behind him. “Stay down,” he told her.
She whimpered, and he guessed what she had to be thinking. Why did this always happen to her? Twice now, she’d been faced with a shooter situation. Doug wanted to assure her that this was the last incident. But he pushed aside his need to comfort her.He needed to concentrate on his next move, and didn’t want to draw attention to himself by talking.
Everyone was on the floor by this time, and the guy was weaving toward the register at the back of the restaurant.
Doug would have one attempt at this. When the asshole walked by, he needed to tackle him and knock him out. Not that it looked like the guy would be able to give him too much fight. Still, one never knew. He was a wiry son-of-a-bitch, and an addict for sure. Which meant even though Doug had, easily, fifty pounds on the guy, the ones on drugs often had abnormal super-strength.
Doug bunched his muscles in anticipation, and Pixie hissed beneath him. “You’re not going to—”
“Shh.” He quieted her with one hiss. “It’ll all be over in a minute.”
One, two…
Doug leaped to his feet and launched himself toward the perp as he came even with their table. It was his signature leap; the one that earlier got him labeled as Superman by a little girl.
He grabbed the guy’s gun-hand mid-flight, and deflected the weapon toward the ceiling before gaining control over the man’s wrist.
They both crashed to the floor, and the gun went spinning from the man’s hand after Doug repeatedly whacked it against the linoleum. Doug didn’t waste another moment. He punched the guy in the jaw, spun to get on top of the perp, using his superior weight to pin the asshole’s shoulders to the floor with his knees.
Doug thought that would be the end of the struggle, but the man—at one point in his debauched life—must have had some kind of defensive training, because he brought his legs up from behind Doug, wrapped them around Doug’s upper torso, and wrenched him backward.
Before Doug could blink, the tables were turned, and the tweaking bastard was on top ofhim.
Not for long.
Doug’s martial arts skills—thanks to Mason and the team’s relentless sessions—kicked in, hard. He bucked, temporarily distracting the asshole, then palmed the guy’s nose, hearing a satisfying crunch.
It would have slowed or stopped anyone not hopped up on drugs. But this prick.Dammit.The guy leaned forward and growled, not only dripping blood onto Doug’s shirt, but reaching for Doug’s neck to presumably choke him.
Right.Like that was going to happen.
Doug was just executing an upward hands’ thrust to knock the man’s arms askew, when harsh words sounded from somewhere above them.
“Okay. That’s enough.”
Damn it.That was Pixie’s voice. Hard. Determined.
She continued. “I have your gun, asshole. And if you don’t want me to put a bullet in your back, you’ll get up slowly and raise your hands in the air.”
Doug blinked, as did the perp, who apparently took the threat seriously, and slowly sat up, hands raised.
Cripes.Did Pixie even know how to shoot a gun? Doug didn’t have that information, but it certainly sounded like she wasn’t messing around.
“Now get off him,” she said, keeping her eyes glued to the druggie.
When the man shifted, Doug got his first look at Pixie; suddenly a bold, blonde Valkyrie, her face filled with righteousness, pointing the firearm at Doug’s opponent with her good arm, with not the slightest hint of a tremor showing.
“Bitch,” the guy rasped. “You don’t want to mess with me. I’ll kill you.”
Doug could feel the man’s muscles bunch, ready to spring.
