Tripp kicked his door in, both pistols up and ready, and there… across the room, standing in the breeze-blown sheers at his shattered picture window was—APD’s photographer?! He was the killer? Worse, the bastard had one arm cocked around Ashley’s neck and a twelve-inch knife in his other. He had that blade stuck under her chin. Why was she just in her bra and panties?
“You!” Tripp spat, aware that Jameson, Tucker, Eden, Ky, Isaiah, and Tate had crowded into the room behind him. That everyone could see every last piece of Ashley.
“Yeah, me!” the guy crowed through swollen, bloody lips. “How dumb are you, soldier boy? Three bitches? Most guys can’t handle fuckin’ one!”
Tripp had no idea why he’d said three. Didn’t matter. I’ll kill him. “What have you done to her?”
“Nothing but punch me and drag me,” Ashley answered hoarsely, her plump breasts crushed under his arm and her nipples on display. “I hit him, Tripp. I fought back, but then I… I lost my bat.” She must’ve meant that hefty branch on the floor.
“And you’re just in time to watch her die!” The bastard tightened his elbow, squeezing off her words. “Drop your guns! All of you!”
He thought he was in charge? No one dropped a thing. Little did this asshat know that an alpha killer now had the back of his head lined up in his crosshairs. Tripp didn’t have a clear shot, not as twitchy as this guy was. Neither would Alex, the way the photographer kept bobbing behind Ashley, unintentionally keeping her head within the same crosshairs. Alex had better be a gawddamned good shot.
Looked like this jerk had been in one helluva fight, though. His nose was a bloody mess, and he was breathing hard. Despite the silly paper towel plugs he’d stuffed up his nostrils, blood dripped steadily down his lips, chin, and neck, onto his trench coat. One eye was swollen nearly shut. But he was the guy with the milky gray eyes Ashley had described. Guess he’d gotten more than he’d bargained for this time around.
“How you doing, babe?” Tripp asked her, trying to exert calmness, even as acid poured into his gut at how frightened she looked.
Ashley stood there trapped, with too much skin showing and shaking like a leaf, her bare back and almost bare ass to the creep’s front. She was barefooted, too, but she hadn’t stepped on the broken window glass yet. Her feet weren’t bleeding. Both hands clenched the guy’s forearm, her elbows pointed out. She was fighting his stranglehold. “I hit him, Tripp,” she wheezed through the pressure on her throat. “Like you told me to do. I wasn’t going to let him—”
“She thinks she’s a tougher bitch than the others, but she isn’t!” The photographer’s arm clamped tighter around her neck, cutting off her words. “Never will be! Won’t live long enough to do more than go splat!”
“I’m tougher than you’ll ever be,” she ground out, her knuckles white against his coat sleeve. “You’re a coward. That’s why you hurt girls.” Lifting one knee, she angled her foot and kicked his shin with her heel.
The jerk winced.
“Shhhhh, Ashley. Not now,” Tripp ordered gently. He’s already crazy. Don’t make him throw you out that window.
“Shut the fuck up!” APD’s cameraman snarled, spitting blood out the side of his mouth. One of those nasty paper towel plugs plopped to the floor, making him look just plain pathetic. “Don’t you idiots get it? They’re all mean, greedy bitches, willing to step on anyone who gets in their way. They don’t know a thing about the game of love! Enough about them! It’s my turn to play!”
Still keeping Ashley in a stranglehold, he fisted his knife at a hard, right angle under her jaw, the tip pointed up. At this rate, that blade would pierce her tongue and palate on its way to her brain. She’d be dead in seconds. The killer cast a quick glance at the tattered sheer curtain flapping in the breeze behind them. He was over-the-top agitated, unpredictable as fuck. A thin line of blood ran down the blade to the handle. He’d already cut her!
Tripp knew what he had to do. Rein it in. Tone it down. For Ashley’s sake. Before he forced this maniac into action. Fighting for composure, he showed the killer his pistol, held it up and sideways to prove he meant what he was saying. “How about we talk? Just you and me. Let the lady go. This is me bargaining in good faith. See? I’m putting my weapon down. Guys, everyone get out of here except—”
“How ’bout we see how good this bitch flies?!” the photographer screeched over Tripp. His eyes were drug-addict bright, more black than ghostly gray. He was definitely hurt, breathing hard, and favoring his right foot. But in two shorts steps, he could still throw Ashley out the window. “Wanna see if you’re quick enough to save this one like you saved that other bitch? Huh, do ya?”
“What other bitch?” It dawned on Tripp then. The bastard was talking about Trish. Tripp’s pistol never reached the floor. It flashed back on target. It was time to end this one-sided negotiation with a man who didn’t deserve to live. Alex had better be ready. “Drop, Ashley! Now!” Tripp bellowed. “Hit the floor! Get out of my way!”
She obeyed, just closed her eyes, and turned into limp deadweight. The photographer couldn’t hang onto her. He fumbled his knife trying to keep a grip. The second her head slipped down past his chest—
PEW! From a place he never saw, came a sound this bastard never heard. Alex’s round hit true. At the same time, Tripp fired, tearing a hole in the photographer’s throat. Then—
BOOM! A fucking cannon roared over Tripp’s shoulder. Right next to his ear. Could only be Jameson’s .44 Magnum following through.
Dead man standing. The bastard’s body stilled in a macabre flash of exsanguination.
