And one of Gene’s thugs.
Bob’s face was tight with determination. With murder. He didn’t speak. Didn’t warn. Didn’t even try to negotiate.
Seth was pretty fucking sure that Gene had sent him. And told Bob to silence him…one way or another.
Thank god, he hadn’t called 911. He’d be surrounded by more cops on Gene’s payroll, ready to finish what Bob was doing his best to start.
A glint of something metallic caught Seth’s gaze. He caught sight of the weapon in Bob’s hand. It wasn’t his police-issue weapon, a less-than-legal street piece, or even a shotgun.
It was something Seth hadn’t expected.
A dart-style tranquilizer gun.
Understanding slammed through Seth’s brain pan. Gene didn’t want him dead…yet. The bastard wanted him incapacitated. Contained. Then…yeah, after enough torture to suit Specter’s anger and bloodlust, Gene would off him.
Seth refused to give the motherfucker the satisfaction.
Teeth bared, Bob fired.
Seth feinted hard to the left, diving and rolling, somehow managing to keep the pouch under his arm. The dart whistled past him and clattered harmlessly to the pavement.
Bob’s eyes widened with something that looked like panic. Then he cursed and backed away, fumbling to frantically reload the next dart.
Seth didn’t give the son of a bitch the chance.
He pivoted and barreled into Bob, who stumbled and tried to regain his footing. But Seth was bigger, stronger, twenty-five years younger, and a hell of a lot more pissed off.
In desperation, Bob raised shaking hands and pointed the tranq gun at him. Seth grabbed the gun by the barrel and shoved it back at him, ramming it between Bob’s eyes with a bone-cracking thwack. Bob grunted. Blood spurted from his nose as his head snapped back.
As he stumbled unsteadily, Seth ripped the weapon from his grip. His hands shook as he shoved the half-loaded dart into the chamber and pointed the weapon Bob’s way. The old cop froze, fear flashing across his face.
“Did Gene fucking send you?” Seth snarled.
Bob hesitated, then nodded. He half expected the old-timer to beg or bargain. Seth didn’t have the time or patience for either. Instead, he grabbed Bob’s arm, held him immobile, and pressed the barrel against Bob’s carotid artery.
Then Seth pulled the trigger.
Bob staggered, his hand flying to his neck. Shock widened his eyes. His legs buckled—just as his goddamn phone buzzed.
Quickly the drug worked its way through his system. Before the bastard passed out, Seth held him upright as he patted Bob down and located his phone.
“Passcode,” Seth growled as he held up the device. “Now.”
Bob’s mouth moved, slurred words tumbling out almost unintelligibly. “Four…seven…two…nine. Please?—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Then Bob’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. His knees gave out as his consciousness slipped away.
Seth dropped Bob, not giving two shits when he fell to the asphalt in a head-thumping heap. Then, as he pocketed Bob’s phone, he glanced up reflexively—a cop’s instinct. The wiring had already been cut from the security cameras mounted around the parking lot, their cables dangling loose against the building’s exterior.
Bob had prepared this kill zone. No footage. No witnesses. Clean elimination.
Gene’s orders. Gene’s reach. Gene’s professionalism.
Seth clenched his jaw as he glanced back at Bob, unconscious. Vulnerable.
Fuck that. Bob hadn’t planned to show him any mercy, and if the asshole came to, the first thing he’d do was call Gene. Then everyone at the house—everyone he loved—would die.
