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So Scotty had tried to rob the place and shot Vince instead? And Zander was the asshole with the smirk and the tattoos? The two of them didn't know each other beforehand?
“Why am I not in a hospital?” He directed that question to Zander, who shrugged.
“Why go through all that trouble when I could fix you up myself?” He made a show of ruffling Scotty’s hair. “Plus, do we want everyone to know that the mayor’s nephew shot a law enforcement officer?” He shook his head. “No, we do not.”
Once again, Vince had the impression that he was missing a huge piece of the puzzle. He looked around, clearing his throat before bringing his gaze back to Zander’s. “You have my phone, wallet, and weapon. I want them back. And I want something to drink.”
“Scotty, get the man a drink from the vending machine over there,” Zander barked. When Scotty got to his feet, Zander pulled him close and whispered something in his ear that had all the blood draining from Scotty’s face. He scurried away without looking back.
“What’s up with Scotty? What are you doing with him?”
Zander spread his hands. “I’m not doing anything with him.”
Vince held his gaze without flinching. “You want something.” That was the only reason he figured he was in the back office of a mechanic’s shop. Zander watched him, gaze working over Vince’s body as if giving him a deep scrubbing. “Is this even your shop? I was driving through, just wanted to get my car looked at.”
“It’s my shop, yeah. Until Scotty over there decided to make it the scene of multiple crimes.”
Crimes Zander didn’t want reported. A light bulb went off. “You’re in trouble with the police.”
“The rent-a-cops around here?” Zander’s features scrunched up in disgust. “Nah.”
Scotty appeared just then, holding out a bottle of water to Vince, who took it with his good hand. The movement made his wound throb even more and he winced.
“Scotty, take a seat next to Vince there.” Zander’s words and tone didn’t invite argument and Scotty didn’t offer up any. He did as told, perching awkwardly on the edge of the couch near Vince’s legs.
“I need to have a professional look at my wound,” Vince told Zander. “If you’re not in trouble with the cops then why not call an ambulance? The longer you keep me here, the worse it’s gonna look for you.” But Vince also wasn’t in a good position; nobody knew where he was or that he’d been hurt. Good in the case of the hired killers that were hot on his trail. Not so good, if he’d judged that look in Zander’s eyes correctly.
The look of a killer.
“It was just a graze, you’re good.”
It appeared Vince had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. “I want my weapon,” he told Zander firmly. “And I want my phone. Now.” He used the tone normally reserved for criminals in the interrogation room, but the guy looked less than impressed.
“Vince.” Zander shook his head, getting down into a crouch. “Catch up, man. The two of you are hostages. Mine.”
Scotty made a helpless sound.
Zander smiled and touched a finger to Vince’s collarbone. “You’re not getting your phone or your weapon, so don’t ask again.” He grinned and got to his feet, pulling two guns from his waistband. One of those guns belonged to Vince. “Fight me and I’m killing Scotty first.”
5
It was surreal hearing someone talk about killing him. Funny enough, Zander wasn’t the first to speak so casually about Scotty’s death. Don used to talk about killing him all the time; one of the reasons Scotty had gotten out of his uncle’s house and made his way onto the streets. He knew what Don was capable of, so he’d never doubted his uncle would take his life if and when it suited him.
He didn’t doubt this guy Zander, either. There’d been a certain kind of menace that had entered his gaze the moment Zander saw the marshal—Vince—had woken up. As if Zander hated the man. But they were all three strangers, weren’t they?
None of it made sense. He wrung his hands, stomach in knots as he sat on the floor next to the couch where the injured man lay. Scotty had been the one to injure him, and he was glad Vince was okay. That he was alert and talking, even though pain lines were prominent on his face. The stiffness of his posture telegraphed the amount of pain he was in, but he didn’t make a sound. Zander had dug up a bottle of painkillers and given some to Vince, who’d gulped them down with a bottle of water. Scotty wasn’t sure how much good the pills did, though. Vince was still so pale.
Vince had sad eyes. Even lying down as he was, Scotty saw the marshal was more muscular than Zander, built solidly with short brown hair and eyes, and appeared to be at least as tall as Zander. Scotty wanted him to be okay, and a hospital would be the perfect place to ensure that happened, but he was also secretly glad that no one knew what happened. If Don ever found out…
He just might make good on all those threats. If Zander didn’t beat him to it.
Scotty dipped his head, doing his best to ignore the nausea riding him, nibbling on his fingernail. He had to get out of there. He hadn’t waited around for Don to do all the things he’d threatened to, so why would he stay while this Zander guy vowed to do the same? He was a survivor. He’d survived Don all this time, he could survive this too.
As long as he got out.
He jerked his head up and glanced around. Zander was outside in the main area, having left Scotty and Vince in the back office. And Zander had the guns. All Scotty had were his two hands that trembled when he thought about escaping. He didn’t know what Zander wanted. He didn’t know why he insisted on keeping Scotty and Vince as hostages. What did Zander get in return? And from whom? Couldn’t be Don; his uncle wouldn’t do anything to help Scotty. He’d likely offer more money to ensure Scotty met his demise.
He rocked back and forth, wincing at the sharp pain in his head.
