Page 137 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
“I care about my son, Ernest,” my father repeats quietly, staring down at his desk. “He’s more important to me than my business.”
Ernest laughs and then reaches a hand down to his belt, removing a Glock from its holster and holding it up to my father’s forehead. Pavel lifts his head up slowly, eyes wide with surprise.
“What are you doing?” he asks, blinking several times, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. Generally, my father keeps a bodyguard or two around, but not at the house usually. If he does, they’re generally posted outside, so where are they?
I’m sweating now, and I’m too upset to be disturbed by the idea of it, my hand trembling slightly as I keep the phone lifted up and tilted toward the window.
“I’ll give you two choices here, Pavel. Because somebody’s dying here tonight. You can call your son home and tell me all about what it is that you’re up to on the side. Or”—the police chief presses the barrel of the Glock against my father’s head as he swallows hard, eyes darting around the room frantically as if searching for help that won’t come—“I can shoot you now. How about it?”
I debate on how I can best help my papa. Could I call someone? But who? The police chief himself is standing right there with a gun to my father’s forehead. I don’t trust either Jonas Kelly or Chet Archer whatsoever. Who does that leave?
Could I grab one of our guns from the other room and make it back here in time? I could fire on several of the men if I shoved this window open and started firing, if I took them by surprise.
“I would never give up my son,” Pavel says softly, and Ernest smiles.
“I didn’t think so,” he replies easily, and then he pulls the trigger.
Just like that.
That quickly.
That unceremoniously.
My eyes go wide as I watch the horror unfolding on the darkened screen of my phone, of the gun firing, of the bullet hitting my father, the way his head snaps back, the pink and red of blood and brain misting the wall behind him. He slumps forward, twitching violently for several seconds, and then goes still.
I can hardly breathe. I’m shaking so much now that the phone threatens to fall from my hand.
“Sir,” a man says, knocking briefly on the door before opening it. “We just noticed that the boy’s car is parked around back, but he doesn’t seem to be in the guesthouse.”
“Find him.” Ernest lowers his weapon as the men scatter, and my heart begins to beat so rapidly that I can hardly think straight.
You need to get off of this property—now.
I turn off the recording and slip my phone into my pocket, noting just before I do that I have no signal and no Wi-Fi. So, just like Scarlett Force and her merry band of thieves, they’re using a signal jammer. But a much better one than Scarlett had.
I crawl on my belly across the roof, heading for the covered porch on the far end of the house. If I can get there and hop onto it, I can find a way down to the ground. Next step is, I need to grab one of the cars, whatever is most easily accessible, and in particular, one that can’t be hacked or traced.
The Miura, I think to myself. I’ve used it recently which means it’s parked near the front of the garage.
I just have to make it there first.
It takes a while to get to the covered porch, but once I do, I lower myself down by grabbing the edge of the roof and letting the muscles in my arms slow my descent. Once I’m hanging just a few feet above the porch roof, I let go and land in a crouch.
I’ve been taking martial arts lessons of all varieties and nationalities since I was a child. I’m in good enough physical shape to take on tasks that a normal person would balk at, including hopping down to the deck with the same method.
My fingers clench the edge of the roof, and I lower myself down like I’m in the middle of a pull-up. My feet hit the Trex decking with a small thump, and I freeze, eyes searching the darkness for the police chief’s goons.
When nobody steps forward to stop me, I turn and head into the trees, intending on circling around behind the guesthouse to the garage. I’ve not made it fifteen feet when someone tackles me.
My first instinct is to stab the poisoned needle of my thimble into the side of the man’s neck as we roll across the forest floor. He grunts, but it’s a relatively small amount of pain. I mean, it is right now. Within ten minutes, he’ll be dead.
