A second later, Carson whirled around at the distinctive sound of a magazine being smacked into the handle of the pistol in time to see Katie rack the slide to chamber a round. She double-checked that the safety was on before inserting it into her belt.
“I know how to handle a gun, Carson,” she said, sounding like a teenager demonstrating a new skill to her surprised father. She untucked her shirt to see how well she could conceal the weapon under it. “But I don’t know why you bothered. It’s a .22. All I’m gonna’ do is piss someone off if I shoot them with it.”
Carson smiled at his chastisement as well as her commentary. “Don’t be so quick to discount it. Those are hollow-point, high-velocity rounds, and I’ve made a few modifications to the gun itself. It might not be a kill shot, but it’ll make someone think twice.” He paused. “Now, I don’t mean it as an insult, but you said you can handle a gun. Does that mean you can shoot?”
She smirked like some punk proclaiming toughness. “I can put an entire magazine in your 10-ring from 15 yards.”
“Of course you can. Not sure why I even asked,” he said, half to himself. “But remember, it’s one thing to blow a paper target to hell. It’s another thing entirely to point a gun at a human being coming at you and pull the trigger with the intent of taking his life. If it comes to that, it’ll be a lot harder.”
Katie nodded. That thought had already passed through her mind, not only in the last few seconds, but years earlier when she’d learned about handguns. “I understand. I’ve never done it, but I know it’s not so easy – at least it’s not supposed to be.”
Carson nodded. “Well, I don’t think you’ll have to find out.”
“Are you sure?” Katie asked with a bit or sarcasm. “The way you talked on the phone, it’s like you were daring them to come after us.”
“Honey, they were coming after us regardless. Nothing I said was going to change that. But now they’ll be looking over their shoulders when they do, especially after they see what I did to those guys back there.” His face darkened a little bit. “I know what I’m doing. Like I told you before, I’m the best there is, or at least I was not too long ago. And they probably know it, so they have reason to worry. OK?”
Even though he said it modestly and matter-of-factly, Katie wondered how much of this was realistic and how much of it was bluster, designed to give him (and her) an unfounded sense of confidence. Yes, it was true she’d heard nothing more than three punches, two thuds, and one short scream before finding her abductors lying on the ground, but could he do it again, when they were watching for him?
For my sake, I hope so.
“You better be as good as you say you are.”
“I am.” He removed his gun from its holster before he stripped off his grimy jeans, rain jacket, and t-shirt so he could plop down onto the bed next to her in what looked like still-dry underwear. “Now, there’s a few very important things you need to know about.”
“Yeah, and I’ve got a lot of questions. You first.”
“OK,” Carson said slowly, as if trying to pick his starting point. “You said your husband’s name is Brendan, right?”
Katie’s narrowed her eyes. “Yeah.”
“With a really strong Boston accent?”
“Yup.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Pale, dark hair that he keeps short. He’s pretty skinny, about 5’11’’, 165-ish. I used to joke I’d have to carry him over the threshold on our honeymoon.” She spoke the last few words slowly and rubbed her temples with her forefingers as she put two and two together. “You better not tell me what I think you’re about to tell me.”
“Well, that’s not the worst of it,” Carson said.
A bolt of anger jarred her. Everything she’d done in the past year had been to ensure he was out of her life for good. How could he still be exerting this kind of control over her? “That son of a bitch,” she mumbled before looking at Carson once again. “What could be worse than my husband wanting me dead? Besides him succeeding, of course.”
Carson looked down and breathed deeply, plainly uncomfortable with his next question. “What’s your father’s name?”
“Garrett,” she answered automatically before fixing Carson with a stare that could kill at 50 yards. “Why?”
Carson relayed what he had heard in the field earlier that evening. “I’m not really sure what all that means, but they’re both involved.”
This revelation hit her hard, harder than the first. Brendan was a user, a manipulator, a control freak, someone who thought of a woman as his possession or a trophy. She hated him. More accurately, she liked hating him. He deserved her disgust and loathing, and although she hadn’t suspected his involvement in any of this, it did not surprise her.
But to have her father – her Daddy? – involved? The man who had taken her on walks to the post office as a child? The distinguished gentleman that let her climb up on his lap in the evening so she could learn to read the headlines in the newspaper? The gentle giant who made her favorite breakfast – blueberry pancakes with whipped cream and chocolate chips on top – on weekends?
Her sadness overwhelmed her anger. Without warning, a terrible sob burst forth. She curled herself into a tiny ball, falling on the bed and rocking back and forth as she cried and moaned, her heart ripping itself to
