Page 319 of Property of Whiskey

I crank his arm behind his back. “Hands where I can see ‘em.”

Crowley sighs like I’ve disappointed him.

The man kicks backward and catches the outside of my knee. Pain shoots up my leg. My grip loosens just enough for him to twist free. He turns with a fist already coming toward my face, but I duck and drive my shoulder into his middle.

We hit the side of the Interceptor hard enough to rock it on the suspension. His hand knots into my hair.

Bad fucking idea.

I trap his arm, drop my weight, and turn my hips.

He goes over me and hits the pavement hard enough to blast the air out of his lungs.

“Stay down.”

He doesn’t. He catches my ankle and yanks. I drop to one knee, pain flaring through the joint again as he surges upright swinging. His fist catches the edge of my mouth.

White light flashes across my vision, and blood floods my tongue with the taste of iron.

Crowley watches from beside his SUV.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t tell the man to stop.

Just watches.

“Violence seems to follow you,” he says.

I spit blood onto the pavement. “No.”

The man lunges again.

I get both hands up, redirect him, then drive my knee into his stomach.

“Fuck you.”

He folds.

I grab his jacket and slam him against the Interceptor hood again. “I bring it.”

That finally wipes the smile off Crowley’s face.

Good.

The man throws an elbow backward and catches me high enough to break my grip. Instead of retreating, he goes straight for my pocket.

Phone. I slap his hand away. He reaches for the body cam next. I twist aside, and we struggle against the Interceptor while boots scrape over pavement and metal presses hard against my hip.

My thumb finds the orange emergency button on top of my portable. I hit it once.

That is all Whiskey needs. Not because he tracked me. Not because he decided I couldn’t handle myself.

Because we planned this. Because I asked. The man tears my body cam halfway off my uniform.

I punch him.

He reels, then snaps forward and headbutts me.

Fuck.