The kid shrugs, reads off the total, asks me if I need a bag. I decline one, pay with cash. Carry the stuff out to the car, set them on the hood to open the door and pull the seat forward so I can place them on the minuscule back seat.
A diesel engine idles somewhere nearby, but I think nothing of it. A door opens, creaking, and then closes with a harsh slam. Still, I think nothing of it. Not until I hear a soft whimper from Naomi.
I toss the last item into the back seat and straighten, glance at her. She’s not just trembling, she’s shaking so hard it’s almost a seizure, shuffling backward, eyes wide, tears pooling in her eyes.
I follow her gaze.
A huge red pickup truck idles halfway in the parking lot, halfway in the road. It’s older, well-cared for, with a suspension lift and knobby mud tires. It's mud-splattered, with a long whip-like radio antenna bent from the hood and fastened to the rear bumper. There’s an LED light bar across the roof of the cab and a bull bar with a winch in front of the grille.
A man stands outside the truck, glowering at Naomi and me. Rage distorts his features, his hands fisted at his side. He’s in his sixties, lean and hard, with gray hair in a lank ponytail and a long, thick beard at his chest. He’s wearing hunting camo and knee-high boots.
“Get over here,now, Naomi Ibsen.” His voice cracks like a whip.
She freezes in place, and I watch her gaze flick to me, to the man I assume is her father. “Please, Papa. I…I…” she can barely form words, she’s so terrified.
I step in front of her. “I don’t think so.”
“This is none of your business,” he snaps, not sparing a glance at me. “She’s my daughter. Myproperty. I say she’s comin’ with me, so she’s comin’ with me.”
I frown. “Property? She’s a person, and a grown-ass woman. She doesn’t have to do a damn thing she doesn’t want to.”
He ignores me. “Naomi. Last chance. I gotta say it again, your punishment will be far worse.” He glares at her, his expression ugly, vile, mean. “And you already earned yourself a world of hurt, girl. Ten days in lockup, you come now. Make me say it again, you’ll be in there a month.”
I palm my pistol with practiced speed, cup the butt and take a prowling step toward Naomi’s father. “I’ll kill you where you stand, old man. Look in my eyes and ask yourself if I’m bluffing.” I turn my head to angle a look at Naomi, without taking my peripheral vision off the old man. “Naomi. Get in the car. Unless you want to go with your father. You make your own choices. You stay with me, I can protect you.”
“You’remine, Naomi. You’ll come with me. You’ll do as I say.Now.”
I don’t bother trying to answer his command. I just keep my pistol trained on his T-box.
A long, tense silence.
Naomi edges toward the passenger seat of my car, fumbles for the handle without taking her eyes off of her father. “Goodbye, Papa.” She opens the door and half falls in, shutting the door on the corner of her skirt.
Her father’s eyes are full of hate and murder as they meet mine. “You’ll pay for taking what’s mine.”
I meet his gaze with a cold, baleful stare of my own; I’ve stared down mafia dons, hired assassins, and South American cartel warlords. This pathetic fuck doesn’t even register. “She belongs to no one but herself. Come after me, you’ll find out exactly who you fucked with. This is your only warning, old man. Don’t fuck with me.”
I turn my back on him deliberately, pistol at my side. Swing behind the wheel, start up the DB5. I keep the pistol in my right hand as I put the car in reverse, back out into the road facing the way I’ve been heading, and then put it in first. Her father is still standing by his truck, watching. I roll down my window. Rest the pistol on my left elbow, draw bead, and fire once—his back left tire pops, deflates. Naomi jumps at the crack of the gun, gasping,
He doesn’t react, but the hate and rage on his face intensifies.
Jesus. No wonder she’s so afraid of everything, if this is the monster who raised her.
I drive away.
“He’ll kill you.” I can barely hear her.
I laugh. “He can try.”
“You don’t understand. You don’t know him.”
I give her a cocky grin. “And honey, you don’t know me. Trust me when I say he won’t hurt you, or me.” I let the grin fade, let her see my confidence. “He’ll never lay a hand on you again. You have my word.”
She looks at me—we pass under a streetlamp, and I can make out the color of her eyes in the dull orange glow. They’re gray. Not just gray, but the layered dark shades of a storm cloud. Her hair is pure auburn, a burnished reddish brown. In the sun, I bet it’d be more red. It’s so long—in a thick fishtail braid, it hangs over her left shoulder and curls on her lap. The end is tied with a faded piece of red fabric torn from a larger swath. Not even a real ponytail holder.
“Why?” Her voice is stronger, a little louder. “Why are you helping me?”
I shake my head, roll a shoulder. “Honestly, I’m asking myself the same question. But I am. I will. I’ll protect you, Naomi. You’re okay now. You’re free.”
