Hunt and Prey (Kelsey's Burden Series Book 8) Kaylie Hunter (books on motivation txt) 📖

and walked to the center of the lot as the Honda turned into the drive. Before he could change course, two cars pulled out, blocking his escape.

The driver watched me as he sat in his idling car. I couldn’t see his eyes but felt them focused on me, waiting to see my next move. Unfortunately, old man Brody—known as Pimples to his poker buddies—walked out from behind a parked SUV and raised a rocket launcher, pointing it at the Honda.

The driver bolted from the car, knocking both Juan and Jack to the ground like a linebacker as he ran across the lot toward the street.

Being the only one under the age of fifty, it was up to me to give chase. I took off as fast as my ballet-style shoes would allow me to run, regretting my shoe choice for the day as my feet slammed against the sidewalk. The man jetted left once he reached the end of the parking lot, knocking people out of his way. I pushed myself to run faster, knowing that if he made it another two blocks I’d lose him in the crowd at the next public beach access.

A half a block later, I was only ten paces behind him when he turned into an alley. I was surprised by his change in direction but didn’t think out the approach as I followed. Still running, I didn’t have time to stop as he swung an arm out, clothes-lining it against my ribs. I doubled over, the wind knocked out of me, as I stumbled and tried to stay upright. Before I was able to correct my stance, a leg sweep to the back of my knees flung me backward to the ground, my gun bouncing from my grasp.

Lying on my back in the dirty alley, he pounced on top of me. His hands wrapped around my neck, cutting off my air.

Instinct. That internal switch that when flipped on, changes everything. The pain, the noise, the lack of oxygen… it all fades away. And instinct channels everything into one thought—fight like hell.

Releasing my hands from his wrists, I used my right fist to throat punch him while digging my keys from my pocket with my left hand. Weaponizing a key between my fingers, I knifed it between his ribs. He winced back, giving me a chance to stab him in the cheek with the next blow.

He growled a scream, jumping to a standing position. I rolled to the right, toward my gun, but as I reached for it, his boot crushed it into the asphalt.

I screamed out as I scrambled to tuck my legs under me, readying myself to stand. The last thing I saw was a boot coming at my face as I heard a nearby woman yell for the police.

Chapter Twelve

CHARLIE

Sunday, 3:15 p.m.

By the time my surroundings stopped spinning, I looked up to find a crowd of strangers and two young beat cops staring down at me as a familiar pair of paramedics pushed their way into the center of the crowd.

“Shit, girl. What’d you get yourself into this time?” Doug Robinson asked as he set his medical bag beside me and squatted to take my pulse.

“Oh, you know…” I sighed as I took a few deep breaths to clear my head. “Just a lazy Sunday spent window shopping.”

The other paramedic, Ralph Stoggs, snorted as he placed a pressure cuff on my right arm. “Anything broken?”

“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?”

“I figure you’ve been injured enough times; you’d be the expert.”

I jerked my wrist from Doug’s grip and used my hand to push myself into a sitting position. They both shook their heads but knew better than to try to stop me.

For a brief moment the crowd swirled in my vision before everything settled again. I reached up and gingerly felt my nose. The cartilage seemed to be in the right place and blood had stopped gushing, but my eyes were watering from the throbbing pain. “Anyone see which direction the guy I was fighting ran?”

“We need to get a statement,” one of the beat cops said, lowering himself to a squat.

I looked him square in the face. “No. You need to clear the crowd and find my gun.”

“What gun?” the other cop asked.

“The gun that was somewhere in this area before I lost consciousness.”

“She’s a cop,” Ralph told them.

“You heard her,” Doug added. “Clear the crowd and find her gun.”

“Show me your ID,” the officer squatting in front of me ordered.

I raised my hand and uncurled my middle finger.

Ralph laughed. “We can vouch for her. This is Charlie Harrison, a detective out of the south-central precinct. I wouldn’t mess with her, man.”

The officers either knew my name or decided to believe Ralph because they jumped into action and started clearing the scene. When they said a few minutes later that they couldn’t find my gun, I tossed the baby wipes I used to clean the blood from my face to the ground and reached a hand up to Doug, who pulled me upward. We all searched, but my gun was gone.

“Damn it.” Frustrated, I walked to the far end of the alley. Just around the corner was a dumpster, baking in the Florida sun.

“I’m not going near that thing,” one of the officers said.

“Me either,” the other added.

“I could order both of you to search that dumpster.”

They both grimaced as Ralph and Doug laughed. His hands still covered in protective medical gloves, Ralph walked over and opened the heavy plastic lid. Doug dragged a wooden pallet over and leaned it against the dumpster as a makeshift ladder. Both looked back at me, grinning.

“This day just keeps getting better and better,” I mumbled to myself as I scaled the pallet to look inside the dumpster.