Page 30 of Protecting His Finch

She’s white as the moon. She shakes her head. “I can’t…I don’t know how to…”

“Just point and pull the trigger. You don’t have to hit him. Just keep him off of me.”

She’s scared. I can’t blame her. Normal people get scared in gunfights.

And then there are people like me and Jacobi. My blood pressure drops. My vision clears. I’m more in my element now than I’ve ever been.

“You can do this,” I tell her firmly.

Maybe my confidence rubs off on her, because she quietly nods and takes the gun. I guide her fingers around the pistol and then line up her aim toward Jacobi.

“Count to three,” I whisper, “then shoot.”

Her jaw is set. All the blood has left her face. But she nods again, and I know I can count on her.

One. Two. Three.

The second I count to three in my head, Finley swings the pistol up on the mattress and fires off a couple of rounds in Jacobi’s direction. The bullets go everywhere—one lodges into the wall, the other flies out into the distance—but it’s enough to keep Jacobi at bay, at least. He retreats further, and it gives me the precious seconds I need to bolt from my cover to get flat against the wall.

This time, when Jacobi swings his shotgun around again, I’m ready for it. I grab the muzzle of the gun and yank him forward so he comes tumbling through the broken glass window, into the motel room. He knocks into me, and his shotgun slides across the floor with a rattle.

Now, it’s the two of us, hand-to-hand. I swing and my knuckles go sore against his face. He knocks the wind out of my chest and throws both of us against the wall. The knock into my wounded shoulder sends a blinding-white pain through me, and for a second, my jaw locks and my spine seizes.

A precious second. It’s all it takes for Jacobi to grab his shotgun off the floor and swing it in my direction.

But he doesn’t shoot. Not right away. He hesitates and winces as though in pain.

“I’m just doing my job, brother,” he tells me, as though in an apology.

The shotgun’s black eyes stare unblinkingly at me. I can taste metal in my mouth.

“And I’m just doing what’s right,” I tell him.

Before Jacobi can unload a buckshot between my eyes, Finley rises like a shadow behind him. She lets out a cry as she swings the butt of my pistol with all of her might against the back of Jacobi’s head.

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He loses consciousness immediately, sinking to his knees, then collapsing to the ground.

I blink. I’m alive. I shouldn’t be, but I am. I’m alive, Jacobi is passed out, and Finley is short of breath, still holding my gun with shaking hands. She drops in front of me and touches my face, and her fingers are so sweet, and I’m so fucking grateful to be alive just for that.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“I’ll live,” I tell her.

Her lips thin, and her eyes don’t leave mine. When she speaks again, her voice trembles, but her tone is firm. “Now we’re even,” she says.

“Yes,” I wheeze. “Now we’re even.”

Jacobi groans. He’s starting to stir.

“What do we do with him?” Finley asks.

“We need rope,” I respond.

We tie Jacobi up with curtain ties and leave him in the bathroom.

He lets it happen. Blood drips from his bald head and into his eye, making him squint.

“Catherine Rossi isn’t going to stop chasing you,” he says. It seems less of a threat now and more of a warning. “You’re not going to be free of her. You know that.”

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