My words were enough to give the trio around me pause. It was all I required. I whipped my skull backward, cracking the hard crown into the bridge of the nose of the big guy holding me. His hold on me loosened marginally as he reared back, eyes shutting in reaction to the blow. I jerked down with my arms, clenched him to me and kicked out, finding O’Neill’s testicles with the toe of my boot. The third man cried out harshly, bringing up my gun. Everything happened within moments, a confusion of grunts and curses, and the cracking of the gun. Amidst the scuffle I’d twisted forward at the hips, hauling my captor up and onto my back, and it was his face that took the bullet, not mine.
I dropped the dead man, even as his friend stepped back in dismay at killing his buddy. I didn’t halt my momentum, and went at him, scooping aside his gun hand and head-butting him full in the face. The man went down on his back, unconscious, the gun spinning away from his grip.
I let the gun lie.
Instead I grasped the flowing hair of Mick O’Neill, twisted it tightly in my grasp and tore him toward the window.
“No, O’Neill, don’t do it!” I yelled for good effect and then slung the screaming man out of the window. “Holy shit!” I cried. “He jumped. Jesus Christ, he jumped rather than be taken alive.”
The cops would hear my cry, even if they didn’t hear the wet splat of Mick O’Neill’s body striking the ground fourteen floors below us.
The scuff of feet on the stairs alerted me to the fourth man. Finished rehanging the door in its frame, he’d returned to investigate what all the noise was about. He was still clutching my Gerber knife as he stared in horror at the dead giant, his unconscious mate, and the apparent disappearance of Mick O’Neill.
I placed my palm flat over the microphone, blocking his words as he said, “I can’t believe what you did to Mick, you bastard.”
“Proportional retribution,” I said. “He got his just desserts.”
“Fucker,” the man yelled, “I’ll kill you for that.”
The man dashed down the stairs and, unarmed, I took a few steps away from him. The man raised his arm, came at me, and I prepared to deflect his blow.
I didn’t need to.
A gun cracked and the man’s head disintegrated under the impact of a .357 round from Detective Holker’s sidearm.
Two days later, I was sitting in a Starbucks, nursing the largest black coffee they served. Sitting directly opposite me, Bryony VanMeter stirred sugar into a concoction already laden with cream, syrup, and God knew what else.
“You’re one lucky son of a bitch, Joe Hunter,” she said.
“I knew that when you agreed to have coffee with me.”
“What, you think this is some kind of a date?”
“I think of it more as a prelude to a date, to see if we’d be compatible for more than an hour or so. Though, I’m not sure we have much in common, judging by the way you’ve just destroyed that coffee. All that gunk you’ve piled on top… it’s sacrilege,” I grinned.
Bryony shook her head in mock despair. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
I shrugged, sat back. “What do you suspect, Detective?”
“Whalen and his crew,” she said.
“Nothing to do with me,” I said. “Why would I come to you and offer to get a taped confession from O’Neill if I was responsible for killing Whalen?”
She leaned closer, pulled open the collar of her blouse. “Don’t worry, Joe. I’m not wired the way you were. You can tell me the truth.”
I enjoyed the view down the front of her shirt for a second too long. She straightened up, frowning at me. “And I don’t buy O’Neill committing suicide, either.”
“You were listening in. You heard me try to stop him, but he’d have none of it. He knew it was his only way to avoid spending the rest of his days in prison. He jumped. Shame there weren’t any other witnesses to clear my good name, but…”
“Yeah, one was dead, the other unconscious, and if Holker hadn’t been so trigger-happy…”
“All’s well that ends well,” I told her. “You got your confession from O’Neill. He owned up to throwing Murray off the roof, and for ordering Whalen’s crew to murder Candice. Some unknown but public-spirited vigilante took down Whalen and his boys for you. Holker saved my life, killed an attempted murderer in the act. Plus, you arrested the guy that killed the monster who was trying to throw me out of the window. That’s one guy who can be sent to prison: so a nice tick in the box for Tampa Homicide. That’s some case clear-up rate, whichever way you look at it. I think even my buddy Holker will be happy. And what has it cost you? A promise that I won’t be prosecuted for breaking into O’Neill’s building, and an agreement to have a coffee with me.”
“Hmm,” she said. She picked up her concoction and sipped. Then she grimaced.
“Too sweet?” I asked.
“Not sweet enough,” she replied.
“Honest, Bryony,” I said with a wink, “when you really get to know me, I’m a sweet guy.”
She thought about what I’d said. Stirred more sugar in her brew. Tasted it once more. Then she pushed the cup away, her gaze never leaving mine. “I make better coffee at my own place,” she said.
I drained my cup, said, “Let’s go to your place, then. I’d never turn down an offer like that.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MATT HILTON has worked in private security and for the Cumbria police department. As an expert in kempo jujitsu, he holds the rank of fourth dan, and founded and taught at the respected Bushidokan Dojo. He is the award-winning author of the internationally bestselling Joe Hunter series. Hilton is married and lives in England.