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Chapter Fifty-three
Blake watched the circle of people shuffle toward the shop and wasn’t surprised that the killer not only had the key, but must have disengaged the alarm system the IT department warned him about. The asshole had to have some freaking fine tech skills.
Not knowing exactly why Dylan had gone to so much trouble to set up this far away shop, he could only surmise he’d intended to take John hostage and have Charli bring Kayla to him at this address.
If he’d been watching the house, which they now assumed he had for at least twenty-four hours, then he knew how many police were around. And he for sure knew that Blake, a Major with the Fort Lauderdale police department, owned the house.
They’d underestimated the asshole – not something they’d do again. In his gut, he knew Dylan intended to shoot everyone and walk out like nothing happened. Capable of doing just that, would it be better for his SWAT team to storm the place and pray they get him before he shot anyone else? Maybe get a sniper set up and hope to get a clean shot? Or should he try and sneak in alone?
Knowing he couldn’t take unnecessary chances with the lives of the people he loved, he opted to go in first. If he didn’t stop the massacre then his men, now strategically placed around the building, would deal with the lowlife bastard.
Taking the vest and rifle that Bill Newton had thoughtfully offered, he gave his instructions and began scrambling past the trees, behind walls and keeping low, heading to the back door where he figured he could enter.
As quiet as possible, he broke the bolt that kept it locked and forced it open enough so that he could slip through. When he got inside, he headed for the main area that housed seating sections from customized boats, many only partly covered.
Sewing machines were set up, a few with pieces still attached. Rolls of fabrics were stacked in the corner, various colors and styles of vinyl and leather, the air permeated with their strong smells.
It gave him a place to hide as he snuck closer to where he heard voices. Hands sweating, he took a deep breath and inched forward. He saw a small boat mirror and picked it up, slowly lifting it between two piles of newly covered pillows so that he could get eyes on the situation.
He saw that Charli stood in front, with the girls behind her. John, glued to Dylan’s gun, was being held as insurance that no one would be stupid.
“Charli, lift your pant legs, then take off your shirt and turn around.”
What the fuck?
Charli’s face dropped, and she argued, “Why the fuck should I take off my shirt, you pervert?
“Because, as soon as I take my gun from John, you’re going to make a move with the gun you kept for backup. We can’t have that now, can we?”
“I gave you my gun. Why would you think I have another?”
“Because, in your place, I’d have brought one. Now lose the shirt so I can make sure you’re clean.”
He dug his weapon harder into John, who tried not to wince but couldn’t stop the pain from appearing in his expression.
Charli lifted the shirt off and dropped it beside her. Then she turned and the weapon he’d expected became visible.
“See, you didn’t disappoint. I knew you’d be carrying. Take it out of your waistband slowly and throw it on that pile of stuffing over there.”
Charli did as she was told but took her time.
Blake saw the despair on her face and knew she’d make a move soon. In her place, he’d rush Dylan hoping to at least save the girls.
Before she could make her play, Blake sent a bullet through the painted window, giving his men eyes in the room and his sniper a shot at Dylan. Then he stepped out for a showdown.
