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A man came out of nowhere. Charged at us.
Bobby screamed.
Groot started yapping.
I hauled Bobby to my body, just as the man reached us. “Get away from—”
He smashed his fist against my jaw.
And all hell broke loose.
Pain—white-hot pain—exploded in my face, my head. Groot growled, no sign of the friendly puppy, now an angry Doberman.
Bobby screamed again—Daddy no! No Daddy no!—as he clung to me.
The man pulled at him, trying to tear him away from me by his arm.
I lashed out with my feet, holding Bobby against my body as tight as I could, my vision blurred with pain and fury, my head roaring.
“Let him go!” Bobby’s father yelled, tugging on his son. “Let him go, bitch!”
“Daddy, stop!” Bobby cried. Groot barked.
I saw Bobby’s father flinch, saw him glance down, and then Groot yelped, a loud, sickening yelp.
My dog. The bastard kicked my dog. The bastard had kicked Groot!
“Let him go,” the vile man screamed, grabbing at Bobby again.
I twisted, pulling Bobby out of his hand. “Let him go!” Yes, I screamed the same thing back at him.
He punched me. Again. On the cheek.
Black stars erupted in my vision. Sound vanished, replaced for a split second by a drill ringing.
And then a tall man covered in tattoos slammed into Bobby’s father, driving him sideways, smashing him to the ground.
Lucas.
On top of him, hands around his throat.
Lucas. Pinning him to the ground.
Lucas.
“Freeze!”
Cops suddenly surrounded us. Poured from the station house. Guns leveled on Lucas and Bobby’s father. Cocked guns.
Locked on them.
Oh God, no.
“Give me my son,” Bobby’s father rasped, bucking and flailing beneath Lucas. “That bitch took my—”
Lucas reeled back and, uncaring of the guns pointed straight at him, smashed his fist into the man’s nose.
* * * *
