Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sam
Wheels cannot be serious. My father hasn’t threatened to kill me since I was a teen and even then, he didn’t mean it.
My giant light-haired guard adjusts his mic “Slate? Where the fuck are you? Over.”
He hisses and pushes down on my head with his large palm. “For the love of God, stay down, ma’am. Help is on the way.”
How can I assist unless I can see the shooters? I squirm to the left side of the desk and move until I have a view through the New Jersey shaped hole in the front door. How long before they toss in tear gas and we get arrested?
“I never heard them announce themselves.” I muse more to myself than my guard but he answers just the same.
“They didn’t.”
Huh.My dad’s officers always shout out they’re the good guys. Shit. Obviously, these are not his men. As more bullets spray the back wall, I squish into a small ball. Finally, they stop, I let go one round, press the trigger, and nothing.
“I’m out of ammo.”
“Me too.” Wheels curses.
If those were real cops, we could toss our weapons, put our hands in the air, and surrender. I’m guessing if we go that route, we’ll end up dead.
He glances back toward the stairs. “We’re going to have to make a run for it.”
“Are you out of your mind?” I don’t know about his nine lives but I used mine up a long time ago.
“We can’t stay here, ma’am.” His hair turns white as more shots explode overhead and the plaster disintegrates.
More bullets ping the metal desk, I shudder, and put my head between my knees.
“When I say go, you-” The bodyguard grabs my hand.
Hey God? Sam here. Cutting things a little close, aren’t you?
“This is the FBI. Cease fire.” The male voice in the distorted loudspeaker sounds an awful lot like Slate.
Through the hole in the door, Tony Buonanno Jr. puts his hands in the air.
“Put your weapon down. Slowly. Kick it to me.” The Patten leader stands with an army of eight men, all with biceps the size of my thighs.
Wheels punches my arm and when I look up, he makes sure I’m listening. “Grab my belt and stay the fuck behind me. Got it?”
“Why?” I thought the cavalry had arrived.
“Don’t you ever just do what’s asked? Go!” He lowers his head and dashes out the door toward a black SUV with the back doors open. Missing are any men in jackets with big white FBI lettering.
Slate pulled a fast one. Nary a Fed in sight.
As Wheels shoves me in the back seat, Slate’s men put Little Tony in another. Then, both vehicles burn rubber and we leave the scene. Seconds later, police cruisers rush by on the opposite side with sirens blaring.
My bodyguard faces out the back window and turns his gaze toward me. “You hurt?”
“I’m fine. What about everyone else?” I’d hate to think a Patten man got injured because of me.
“The whole team made it out safely.” The driver’s piercing gray eyes view me in the rearview mirror.
“Thank God. How the hell did Buonanno find me?”
