Page 71 of Target Acquired
She walked into the storage room and flipped the light on. “Good grief, Grandma Betsy, how’d you get so much stuff?” She set up the card table, grabbed the nearest box, and pulled the top off. Stuffed animals? From a hundred years ago most likely. Even if it was just thirty years ago, she wasn’t touching them. “Ick.” She slapped the top back on and carried the box to the outside trash can.
On the fourth trip, she paused. The trash can was just around the side of her garage wall, and each time she hauled stuff to it, she waved to her bodyguard. Except now, the officer wasn’t there. She reached for her phone, only to remember she’d left it on the card table in the storage room. In the house with the alarm momentarily disarmed. “Great.”
Her skin pricked and the hair on the nape of her neck bristled, just as goose bumps pebbled her arms. “Who’s there? What do you want?”
Silence.
Then a slight rustle to her left in the shadows.
She spun to run back to the house. A hard arm closed around her throat, and she grabbed the forearm with both hands and stepped back to ram her hip into the person’s midsection. He grunted and she bent forward, flipping him over her head. Her side protested, but she ignored it and he landed on the cement. She dove for him, her knee digging into his solar plexus. The sound that came from him wasn’t pleasant, but she pressed harder—until he swung his right hand and something hard connected with her head. She cried out, falling away from him while stars danced in her vision. She managed to roll to her knees. A wave of nausea stunned her just long enough for him to place the barrel of a gun against her head. He dragged her to her feet and she froze, her back to him, the gun still there.
“What do you want?” She hated that the words came out on a strangled gasp.
“You gone. Quit the team or die.”
She spun and stared into his masked face—and the barrel now lined up with her nose. “What?”
“Hey!”
The shout from across the street froze the guy for a millisecond, but it was long enough for Kenzie to grasp the wrist attached to the hand with the gun and shove it up. She brought up her knee, aiming to do as much damage as possible, but he twisted, shoved her back to the drive, and took off, disappearing back around the side of the house. Kenzie scrambled to her knees, her side throbbing, head pounding.
Where was her protection?
“Kenzie?” Mrs. Arnold, in her early seventies and clutching her pink bathrobe at her throat, hurried from across the street. “Are you all right? I called 911.”
“I’m okay. Thank you.” Kenzie pulled in a breath and winced at the pain in her side. Okay, she may have pulled one of her stitches.
“Who was that?” The poor woman trembled.
“I don’t know. I’m going to file a police report. You don’t have a video doorbell, do you?”
“No, but after tonight, I might consider it. Honestly, I don’t understand what this world is coming to. Being attacked in your own drive.”
“It’s okay.” Sirens sounded in the distance. “When the cops get here, can you give them your statement? I’ll talk to them when you’re finished.”
“Of course.”
“Thanks. Tell them to knock when you’re done.”
She ran—okay, hobbled—inside, hand pressed to her side, grabbed her phone, and tapped Officer Butte’s number. “Yeah?”
“This is Kenzie. Where the heck are you?”
“Got a DV call a half a mile away—husband had a gun.”
“Right. Thanks so much for letting me know.”
“I texted you, Kenzie. I’m sorry.”
“Right. And when I didn’t respond, you couldn’t call?”
“No, I was already at the—What’s going on? Are you okay?”
She sucked in a steadying breath. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
And she was. Other than aggravating her wound, a throbbing headache, and a blinding rage that continued to build.
But she was fine.