The Last Resort Page 6
I kicked his weapon out of reach and spun to face the others.
Gunner looked at the pup, real disappointed. ‘Beat by a damn girl, that’s plain embarrassing.’ He glanced at the weasel-faced man. ‘Show the boy how it’s done.’
Weasel-face threw himself at me. I deflected his first blow with my left forearm and punched him in the stomach. He groaned, but kept on coming, grabbing for my hair. The skull thumb ring on his left hand glinted in the artificial light. I feigned left and moved right, but he was too fast. He yanked me to him, twisting me around, so his forearm was across my throat and the bulk of his body was pressed up against my back. He smelt of stale sweat and tequila. I had to get out of this. These men couldn’t get near Dakota.
‘Feisty, ain’t you?’ Weasel-face growled in my ear. ‘I like a woman with a bit of spirit.’
Gunner laughed. ‘Seems this one ain’t broken to saddle.’
Weasel-face ran his free hand up from my waist, across my stomach to my breast and pinched my nipple hard. ‘Best get her taught.’
No way was that going to happen. Focus. I took a breath, then kicked back hard as I could. The heel of my cowboy boot struck Weasel-face’s kneecap. I heard the pop as cartilage and muscle gave in to the pressure. Weasel-face howled. His grip around my throat loosened, but didn’t yield.
I pivoted left, pushing my chin into the crook of his elbow and my hips sideways. His arm tensed across my throat. I jabbed my elbow fast up under his ribs. As he doubled over, my second blow caught him hard in the groin. He stepped back on to his busted leg. Wrong move. I heard his knee crack and watched him drop like a felled maple.
The game had tipped in my favour: two out of three down, one to finish.
Gunner, by my reckoning the leader of this band of lowlifes, grinned a yellow-toothed smile. He beckoned me forward. ‘Seems like you need to learn some manners.’
‘Seems you should learn them yourself.’
I reached for my X2 Taser. Too slow. I was still releasing it from the holster when Gunner lunged at me, his shoulder slamming me hard to the ground. I gasped, winded, and then he was on top of me, grabbing for my wrists.
I struggled against his bulk, beating on any bit of him I could reach. I couldn’t let him get a hold of my hands. If he did I’d be powerless and he knew it.
His fist slammed into my face. I felt my lip split and the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. I thrashed wilder, twisting on to my side. He punched: my ribs, my shoulders, my head. But he had less power at this angle. As he yanked me round to face him I planted a decent right hook to the side of his jaw. That surprised him. Grabbing his right ear, I dug my nails into his flesh and used the momentum and his moment of recoil to yank him sideways, propelling him on to his back, me on top. I dug my knees in tight to his ribs like I was a champion bull rider playing for the title.
‘Bitch,’ he spat. I felt a whoosh of air near my left ear and ducked. The knife in his hand glinted silver.
I slammed the side of my clenched fist hard into the bridge of his nose. Heard it break. He wheezed, coughing blood, and loosened his grip on the knife. I prised it from his fingers.
He tried to punch me, but his aim was off. I dodged it. He grabbed one of my wrists instead. Out the corner of my eye I saw the pup moving towards me. Not good. I had to finish this.
I plunged the knife hard into Gunner’s shoulder, twisting it, cutting into muscle and sinews, maximising the damage.
As he yowled I leapt to my feet, aimed a kick at the pup’s head and brought him down. Gunner was still moving. I rolled him on to his front and pulled his arms behind his back. Hard as it was, I fought to keep him still enough to get a pair of plasticuffs around his wrists. He floundered around like a landed fish. Damn redneck didn’t know when he was beat. I stamped the heel of my boot hard into his back and tugged his arms higher, twisting them in their sockets. Must have hurt like a bitch with that shoulder wound. He roared in fury.
The plasticuffs slotted into place. I strode around to face him. ‘Attacking a woman? Weren’t you boys raised right?’
Gunner spat at me.
‘Your momma must be real proud,’ I said, shaking my head.
I glanced at the other two. The pup was out cold. Weasel-face was down and whimpering. His leg was twisted out at the knee at the strangest angle.
The game was mine: three out of three, a perfect score. Now I had to find JT.
As I moved across the room to the hallway, I noticed the semi-automatic was wedged snug against the dresser. I couldn’t leave it. I nudged it free with the toe of my boot, and kicked it along the floor in front of me as I stepped into the hallway.
The heels of my boots knocked a cautious beat across the wooden floor. Pressing my back against the wall, I peered around the doorframe into the next room. A kitchen. Dark and empty. Ahead there was one final room before the stairway. The door was shut.
Standing to one side, I gently turned the doorknob. It moved a small way, then stuck. Locked.
Interesting. It seemed these boys had been holding JT prisoner. I’d gotten the sense from Quinn that this deal was civilised, that JT was willing to come in. Maybe Merv’s crew were local boys looking to cash in on the bond by helping him out. But even with what I knew of Merv’s reputation, it didn’t make sense for them to attack me. We were meant to be on the same side.
Whatever the reason, I needed to get JT and get gone. That left me with a few choices: pick the lock – but I only had the knife to hand; shoot the lock off, but that would mean me using the semi-automatic, which I couldn’t handle; or kick the door in. The first would take time, the second two would announce to whoever was inside I was coming. I heard shuffling noises from the front room. Had the pup come to?
I needed to move fast. There was no time for finesse.
I kicked the door a few inches shy of the doorknob. The wood was old and brittle; a split appeared, but it didn’t give. I heard a muffled shout from the other side; a man’s voice, JT’s perhaps. I kicked again, harder. The wood splintered apart, the middle panel collapsed into the room.
I peered through the gap. A single chair was bolted to the floor in the centre of the room, a man tied to it. He smiled, and I felt my breath catch in my throat.
‘It’s good to see you, Lori.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Steph Broadribb was born in Birmingham and grew up in Buckinghamshire. Most of her working life has been divided between the UK and USA. As her alter ego – Crime Thriller Girl – she indulges her love of all things crime fiction by blogging at www.crimethrillergirl.com, where she interviews authors and reviews the latest releases. Steph is an alumnus of the MA in Creative Writing (Crime Fiction) at City University London, and she trained as a bounty hunter in California. She lives in Buckinghamshire surrounded by horses, cows and chickens. Deep Down Dead, her debut novel, was the first in the Lori Anderson series. The second, Deep Blue Trouble, will be out in ebook at the end of 2017 and paperback in January 2018.
Steph also writes under the name Stephanie Marland. The first Stephanie Marland book, My Little Eye, will come out in ebook in November 2017 and paperback in March 2018 with Trapeze Books (Orion).
You can follow Steph on Twitter @CrimeThrillGirl and on Facebook at Facebook.com/steph.broadribb, or visit her website: www.crimethrillergirl.com.
Copyright
Orenda Books
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West Dulwich
London SE21 8HU
www.orendabooks.co.uk
First published in the UK in 2017 by Orenda Books
Copyright © Steph Broadribb 2016
Steph Broadribb has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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