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“I’m still at the Belling’s job in Miami. Julia called,” he says.
The code name switches my mode. “What’s the address?”
“Miller Lane. You’re closer. You got it?”
“Be there in ten. Send me the shit.”
I hear a ding. “Just did.”
“I’ll text when it’s done.” I click my cell off.
I pull over to the side of the road and pop the glove box open. I grab the burner and check the message: Cassie. Two. Abuser and Victim. Address 1349 Miller Lane. No known guns.
I click on the photo and look at the picture of the happy couple, likely before the abuser showed his more sinister side. The woman, Cassie, is beautiful. Her photo portrays a strong person, but it’s a picture. Perception is a fucker. I’m sure when she started dating the guy in the photo, she never imagined he’d hurt her. They never do.
I put the burner back, grab my arsenal, and turn the car around.
It’s ten o’clock. Streetlights lead my way to the address in the quiet residential area. I park a house down and get out.
Cracking my neck, I clench my fists.
I never know what I’m about to walk into, but I make sure I walk into it every time. If I don’t, she could get hurt or worse.
If she made the call, then I’m her last resort.
Some abused women are too afraid to call the police, or they don’t want to get family or friends involved. Some have children.
I’m here for those women.
Walking up the steps, I stop at the door and look around for any witnesses.
All clear.
I rap my knuckles on the door. Wait. And do it again. Harder. Louder.
The door opens. I’m met with dark eyes. I take a quick note of the blood and cut marks on the fucker’s face.
We have a fighter. Good for her. Sometimes, it’s worse for the fighters, though.
I need to get inside.
I scan his visible hand on the doorjamb for any weapons.
All clear.
Confident I can take the fucker, I smile. “Is Cassie here?”
The man’s face scrunches into its natural ugliness. “Who the fuck are you?”
Shoving my foot against the door, I match his threatening glare. “I’m here to pick up Cassie.”
I push the door open. He stumbles back, and I step inside.
My eyes snap to the stool on the floor, the blood on the fridge, and the small hand sticking out from the bottom of the counter on the floor.
My fists retain their ready position.
I turn to the asshole. He’s staring at me like he’s trying to figure out what to do.
