Born Wild

heavenward—thank you, sweet baby Jesus—because he couldn’t quite envision he and Mac carting the tubby sonofabitch back the four and a half blocks to the dude’s townhouse wherein the interrogation could commence.

“Now, Dale,” the man whimpered at the sound of his name, but Bill ignored it as he hauled the guy back to his feet, forcing him to support his own substantial weight, “my partner and I have a few questions for you. And we want to ask them in private.” Dale shook his head vigorously, so Bill oh-so-subtly—okay, it wasn’t subtle at all —reminded the guy of the Glock shoved into his back. Again a pitiful whimper slipped between the fingers he held over Dale’s mouth. Bill barely resisted rolling his eyes. “And if you come with us willingly, if you don’t put up a fight, I can promise you, you won’t get hurt. Now, be a good boy and nod your head so I know you understand me.”

The man was shaking so hard he was pulling a Santa Claus and jiggling in Bill’s arms like a bowl full of jelly. Still, Bill was able to feel the guy jerkily nod his head. “That’s good. Now, let’s turn around, real easy like, and head on back to your place.”

* * *

What had snagged Eve’s attention was the sight of Billy and Mac coming up the block, frog-marching Dale between them. And the poor man looked like he was about to have a heart attack.

Wait…poor man? Poor. Man? Had she really just had that thought? Good Lord, she should really have her head examined. Because the only reason Billy and Mac would grab Dale as opposed to simply watching him was if he’d been up to no good which, oh, crap, meant she’d once again been incredibly wrong in her assessment of someone.

It’s strike number two for you tonight, Eve ol’ girl! And strike number one thousand and thirty two in the grand ballgame of her life.

Curses. Shaking her head at herself, lamenting her terrible judgment when it came to the characters of men, she watched as the trio climbed the steps leading to Dale’s front door. Okay, so they were going inside to question him? She shivered at the thought, imagining canisters of gasoline stacked against the walls, as well as all other manner of crazy, scary equipment that might be used by the mentally deranged stalker-y sort. Then again, she supposed interrogating Dale inside the privacy of his own home made a lot more sense than continuing to restrain the guy at gunpoint on the street.

Holding her breath, she saw Billy lean in close to Dale, probably issuing instructions for the man to unlock the door. Dale shook his head, struggling to step back until Mac was forced to wrench Dale’s arms up high behind his back. Oooh, ouchy. That looked like it hurt. Still, Dale shook his head vigorously, and Eve had to give the guy credit. He was obviously smart enough to realize his chances of escaping whatever lay in store for him once they entered that townhouse dropped from not likely all the way down to not a snowball’s chance in hell.

Billy said something to Mac, his teeth flashing white when Mac nodded. She squinted through the tinted window, trying to figure out what he was doing when he reached into a zippered pocket on his cargo pants, pulling out something that he attached to the hinges and locks on Dale’s front door. A second later, a muted hiss echoed down the street accompanied by a shower of sparks from the door’s metal hardware. And, just like that, Billy grabbed the big slab of solid wood and edged it aside, the whole thing having been neatly removed from its frame.

Uh…can you say holy schnikes?

Okay, so simply digging in Dale’s pocket for the keys would’ve been easier, but it also would’ve been far less impressive. And Billy was obviously trying to make a very clear impression on Dale. The impression that Dale had better cooperate, because they had the ways, the means, and the intent to get past any and all of his resistance.

It must’ve worked, because Dale stopped whipping around in Mac’s arms and allowed himself to be pushed over the threshold. In a flash, Mac and Billy followed him in, and Eve was left with no recourse but to sit there like a good girl while the big bad men took all the risks.

Um, yes. So not going to happen. Because there was an opportunity here. An opportunity to prove to herself and Billy just how far she’d come. A chance to take control of her own life and stop being a victim…

Snatching the duffel bag from the seat beside her, she heaved it onto her lap. It was heavier than it looked, and when she dug inside she could see why. The thing was filled with rolls of wire, canisters of powder, and cellophane-covered blocks of sticky stuff that looked like putty but smelled more like industrial cleaning products.

Come on, come on…She glanced over her shoulder at the back window and the shotguns mounted there. If left with no other option, she supposed she could use one of those. But since she hadn’t had any training with shotguns, that wouldn’t be her first choice. Then, in the side pocket of the duffel… victory!

With a triumphant laugh, she un-holstered the little snub-nosed Smith & Wesson revolver from its leather case and flipped out the cylinder to make sure all six chambers were loaded.

“Score,” she whispered into the silence of the Hummer’s interior before easing open the door. She slipped quietly from the vehicle, careful to keep the weapon tight against her thigh so as not to draw the attention of anyone who might happen to look out their window.

Scurrying across the street, her heart pounding with fear and, yes, a little bit of anticipation— woo-hoo! Ladyballs in the ha-yowse!—she stepped over the crushed body of an empty beer can lying in the middle of the sidewalk and hustled up the stairs. And before she could second guess her decision, or think about how unbelievably pissed Billy was going to be, she held her revolver at the ready—just like her shooting instructor had taught her: one hand curled loosely around the grip while the other supported the edge of her shooting hand and the bottom of the weapon—and ran inside.

Chapter Six

Dale Pennyworth was wearing some sort of weird bodysuit and an expression of abject horror as Mac watched Bill push him down into a recliner before lowering a Glock at the guy’s bulbous nose. Mac actually thought the dude might shit a kidney—a rather bruised kidney by the way Bill had had his gun shoved in the dude’s back—and wouldn’t that add the final touch to the stench of cold pizza, stale beer, and inch-thick dust hovering about the place?

Taking at quick glance around, Mac saw shelf after shelf packed with action figures, comic books, the occasional used tissue, and a shitload of empty Bud Light cans. Obviously, it was the maid’s week off…Year off? Maybe decade off?

“So, Dale,” Bill growled, looking like nothing less than death on two feet. BKI’s explosives expert loomed over the poor schmuck who was now reclined in his leather chair, trying to put as much distance between himself and the terrifying black eye of Bill’s Glock as he possibly could. “You want to tell us what you were doing following that poor woman?”

“Wh-who are you?” Pennyworth stammered, swallowing loudly. The man was a day or two past his last shower, sweating like a whore in church, and when he opened his mouth, his breath smelled like a horse fart.

Oh, joy. And Mac had hoped for a quiet, uneventful Saturday. Although he should’ve known better. His life had been the opposite of quiet and uneventful since the morning he agreed to wave sayonara to the FBI and instead throw his hat in with the badass boys of BKI.

“Let’s just say,” Bill grumbled, “that we’re acquainted with Eve Edens and—”

“Eve?” Pennyworth interrupted and tried to push into a seated position. When his nose ran into the barrel of Bill’s gun, he decided to stay exactly where he was. Smart man. “Is…is she okay?” Dale wheezed, holding his hands up in front of him, watery blue eyes wide and unblinking.

“She is. No thanks to you,” Bill snarled, and Mac could tell by the tension in Bill’s jaw that he’d rather just plug Pennyworth with a couple of slugs and be done with it. Fortunately, Wild Bill was a soldier. And there was a