Destiny Calls Samantha Wayland (the first e reader .txt) 📖

sweet ass time reading every damn word of the arrest warrant.

Jesus. Hurry up.

A trickle of sweat slid down Patrick"s back. It was warm in the room, heat pouring from the kitchens on the other side of the wall, and his Kevlar was tight and hotter than hell.

The bastard was stalling. For Christ"s sake, warrants were cookie cutter documents and Patrick would bet his life that this character had read one before. Probably with his own name at the top.

Finally, the dickhead lawyer turned to Mario. “It"s legit.” No shit. Patrick was fast losing his patience. They needed to leave. Now.

Mario looked at his lawyer for a moment before facing Brandon. “Good for you, young man. It seems I"m coming with you.”

Brandon, ever the cool diplomat, nodded. “Thank you, sir. If you"d please stand.” Mario complied and Brandon moved to usher him forward, shooting Patrick a look, then addressing the uniformed officers. “Read him his rights and cuff him.” The trigger-happy henchman"s hands immediately disappeared off the table.

Patrick couldn"t see what he was doing, but the man"s left lapel was rippling.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Instincts screaming, Patrick pulled his gun and took aim.

“Don"t do it,” he barked, hoping like hell the stupid shit would listen, even as he moved to shield Brandon in case he didn"t.

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Destiny Calls

The only sound that followed was four guns being drawn from their holsters. With his back to everyone but the henchmen and the lawyer, he prayed to god all those noises had come from the good guys. He could hear one officer, bless his cool fucking head, had kept both hands free and was calmly cuffing Mario"s wrists while continuing to drone the Miranda rights.

Perfectly still, he kept his eyes locked on the henchman. He and Brandon were wearing wires. If either of them said “gun”, the entire SWAT team would be down those stairs in thirty seconds. Thirty seconds was a long fucking time when you"re a sitting duck in the middle of a dining room.

Brandon"s back came up against his. “Mario, you don"t want to do this. Tell your man to stand down.”

Patrick imagined he could hear the clatter of combat boots as the SWAT guys poured out of their vans. They wouldn"t come in until called, but a comment like that was enough to get them to the door.

Mario must have heard them coming too. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice that of the gracious host addressing his guests, “please put your hands on your tables where these fine officers can see them.”

Patrick watched as his favorite asshole slowly brought his hands back into sight.

Thank Christ.

They managed to get Mario and all the good guys out of there in one piece, although Patrick didn"t holster his gun again until he was out on the street. He stood to one side and watched as they loaded Mario into the cruiser and hauled him away. Once the car was around the corner and the crowd began to disperse, he let out the breath he"d been holding.

Brandon wrapped a hand around his arm. “You okay?” Patrick wasn"t sure what he was. His heart was pounding and he felt twitchy as hell.

There was enough adrenaline in his system that he was almost numb from it. He wasn"t even sure if he still had legs. And even if he didn"t, he was pretty sure he could have run all the fucking way to New York and back. He needed to get away from all these people.

“Yeah, I"m okay. Let"s get out of here.” He turned and strode down the street without looking back.

Brandon was immediately at his side. “Are you sure you"re okay?” He really wished Brandon would quit asking him that.

Stumbling to a halt, he realized he"d almost walked right past his own damn truck.

He turned to Brandon. “Why the hell are you so calm?” Brandon"s only answer was to hold out his hands. They were shaking. Violently.

“Jesus. How the hell do you maintain that fucking calm appearance? You look like it"s just any normal fucking day.” Patrick ran his fingers through his hair, intensely 49

Samantha Wayland

aware of his holster and the vest and how they restricted his movements. “Shit. I can"t believe I drew my gun.”

“You"ve done it before.”

He shook his head and unlocked the doors. “Not like that.” He climbed into the driver"s seat, waiting for Bran to get in on the other side and close his door before saying anything else. It wasn"t exactly the sort of shit you talked about on a busy street.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to get his head screwed on straight. “I"ve only pulled my gun a handful of times and this was the first time I had to point it at a human target.”

Human target. Stupid. He"d have taken that man"s life tonight if he"d had to. Human target was a nice way of making it seem less personal. What a joke that was. Turned out killing someone was pretty damn personal.

Turning over the engine, he floored the gas and flew into the stream of traffic, eliciting four honks and a finger gesture. His knuckles white on the steering wheel, he whipped around corners and gunned it where he could. Brandon held on, watching him with something suspiciously like sympathy on his face. It was really pissing him off.

He needed to burn off some of the adrenaline. Driving like a total asshole wasn"t helping as much as he had hoped.

Brandon"s voice was careful. “I hate to keep asking this, but are you sure you"re okay?”

Patrick looked over at Brandon and something in him snapped. Cranking the wheel hard to the right, he roared into a public alley barely a foot wider than his truck, slammed on the brakes and threw the transmission into park. Turning, he released his seat belt before reaching to unlatch Brandon"s. Brandon stared at him, eyes wide, like he was a complete raging maniac. Which, actually, he pretty much was.

He wrapped his hands around the shoulder straps of Brandon"s vest, enjoying