Cause to Run. Blake Pierce
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she commanded. Or you’re dead.
She tried to flip over his body, or break the hold with his arms. An iron grip held her fast. Something slammed into Desoto’s back. He lowered Avery’s feet to the ground and looked behind him to see Ramirez with a chair.
“That didn’t hurt you?” Ramirez asked.
Desoto growled.
Avery collected herself, lifted her foot, and stomped her heel into his toes.
“Ah!” Desoto howled.
He wore a white button-down T-shirt, tan shorts, and flip-flops; Avery’s heel had cracked two bones. Instinctively, he let go, and by the time he was ready to grip her again, Avery was in stance. One quick punch to his throat was followed by a jab to his solar plexus.
An iron bat was on the ground.
She picked it up and swatted him in the head.
Desoto instantly went limp.
Two of his men were already down, including the little brother. A third – who’d been watching her battle with Desoto – widened his eyes in surprise. He drew his gun. Avery swatted his hand with the bat, spun with the momentum, and clocked him in the face. He crashed into a wall unit.
The last two men had overtaken Ramirez.
Avery swung the bat into the back of one man’s knees. He flipped up. She brought the steel down on his chest and kicked him hard in the face. The other man punched her in the jaw and followed with a screaming tackle onto the poker table.
They crashed down together.
The man was on top and rained down blows. Avery finally caught a wrist and rolled. He fell off and she was able to spin and trap his arm in a submission hold. Avery lay perpendicular to his body. Her legs were over his belly and his arm was straight and hyper-extended.
“Let go! Let go!” he cried out.
She lifted a leg and kicked him in the face until he passed out.
“Fuck you!” she yelled.
The room was silent. All five men, including Desoto, were out cold.
Ramirez groaned and got to his hands and knees.
“Jesus…” he whispered.
Avery spotted a gun on the floor. She grabbed it and pointed it at the basement door. No sooner had she aimed than Tito appeared.
“Don’t you lift that gun!” Avery howled. “You hear me!? Don’t you do it.”
Tito glanced at the gun in his hand.
“You lift that gun and I shoot.”
The scene in the room was impossible for Tito to believe; his mouth practically fell open when he saw Desoto.
“You do all this?” he asked seriously.
“Drop the gun!”
Tito aimed at her.
Avery fired two shots into his chest and sent him flying back into the staircase.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Outside the coffee shop, Avery held a bag of ice over her eye. Two nasty bruises were throbbing beneath it, and her cheek was swollen. It was also hard to breathe, which made her think she’d fractured a rib, and her neck was still sore and red from the tight squeeze of Desoto.
Despite the abuse, Avery felt good. Better than good. She’d successfully defended herself against a giant killer and five other men.
You did it, she thought.
She’d spent years learning to fight, countless years and hours when she was the only one in the dojo, just sparring with herself. She’d been in other fights before, but none against five men, and certainly none against someone as powerful as Desoto.
Ramirez sat on the curb. He’d been on the verge of collapse ever since the basement. Compared to Avery, he was in bad shape: face riddled with cuts and swollen spots and constant dizzy spells.
“You were an animal down there,” he muttered. “An animal…”
“Thanks?” she said.
Desoto’s diner was in the heart of A7, so Avery had felt obligated to call in Simms for backup. An ambulance was on the scene, along with numerous A7 cops to take Desoto and his men in for assault, weapons possession, and other small infractions. Tito’s body – wrapped in a black bag – was brought up first and loaded into the back of the emergency vehicle.
Simms appeared and shook his head.
“It’s a mess down there,” he said. “Thanks for the extra paperwork.”
“Would you have rather I called my own people?”
“No,” he admitted, “I guess not. We’ve got three different departments all trying to pin something on Desoto, so at the very least this can help shake the tree. I don’t know what you were thinking going into that place without backup, but nice work. How did you take all six of them on your own?”
“I had help,” Avery said with a nod to Ramirez.
Ramirez raised a hand in acknowledgment.
“What about the yacht murder?” Simms asked. “Any connection?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Two of his men robbed the store twice. Desoto was surprised about it, and pissed. If the two other clerks corroborate the story, I think they’re in the clear. They wanted money, not a dead store owner.”
Another cop appeared and waved at Simms.
Simms gave a light tap on Avery’s shoulder.
“You might want to get out of here,” he said. “They’re bringing them up now.”
“No,” Avery said. “I’d like to see him.”
Desoto was so large he had to dip out of the front door. Two cops were on either side of him, and one was at his back. Compared to everyone else, he looked like a giant. His men were brought up behind him. All of them were led toward a police van. As he drew close to Avery, Desoto paused and turned; none of the cops could make him move.
“Black,” he called.
“Yeah?” she said.
“You know that target you were talking about?”
“Yeah?”
“Click, click, boom,” he said with a wink.
He stared at her for another second before he allowed police to load him in the van.
Idle threats were part of the job. Avery had learned that a long time ago, but someone like Desoto was the real thing. Outwardly, she stood her ground and stared back at him until he was gone, but on the inside, she was barely keeping it together.
“I need a drink,” she said.
“No way,” Ramirez muttered. “I feel like shit.”
“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “Any bar you want. Your choice.”
He instantly perked up.
“Really?”
Avery had never offered to go out to a bar that Ramirez wanted. When he went out, he drank with the squad, while Avery chose quiet, low-key bars around her own neighborhood. Ever since they’d been a sort-of item, Avery had never once accompanied him out, or had a drink with anyone else in the department.
Ramirez stood up too fast, swooned, and caught himself.
“I got just the place,” he said.
CHAPTER NINE
“Fuckin’ A!” Finley roared in a drunken stupor. “You just took out six members of the Chelsea Death Squad, including Juan Desoto? I don’t believe it. I don’t fuckin’ believe it. Desoto is supposed to be a monster. Some people don’t even believe