Page 64 of Secret Vendettay
A flitting thought skated through my mind. A ludicrous thought for many reasons, only one of which was that Sean had no vehicle while I was gone. So, there would be no physical way for him to get to the prison.
Right?
But then how did the Vigilante go to and from his crime scenes, undetected? Surely, someone smart enough to continually evade the police wouldn’t be stupid enough to use his own vehicle.
I’d never given much thought to it before. And now that I was studying Sean more closely—who was also the right height and build as the Vigilante—something else was different from when I’d left him this morning.
“Did you just get out of the shower?”
He was wearing a different outfit than when I’d left, and his hair was damp, his body smelling fresh of body wash.
“Yep,” he said, tugging at his ear.
“Another one?”
His shower this morning had been so long, I’d run out of hot water.
“I went for a run while you were gone.” Sean crossed his arms over his chest.
“I thought you had to record a podcast?” Yet now that I walked back into the living room, all of his equipment, which was temporarily set up there, looked like it had gone untouched.
I was about to press him on it, but my cell phone interrupted with a buzz.
Hunter: An unknown vehicle just pulled into your driveway. Don’t open your door under any circumstance. I’m sending security.
My muscles tensed, and a moment later, a pounding knock at the front door made me jump. The door groaned in protest at each strike, as if cracking under the weight of the force lurking just beyond its threshold.
Hunter: Don’t move.
My throat ran dry.
“You think it’s Franco?” Sean whispered.
Images of what happened in that van flashed through my mind like a horror movie. The blood. The gore. The evil intent in the guy’s eyes, and instantly, my body started to quiver.
“I don’t know.” But I wasn’t going to stand here defenseless, so I grabbed a baseball bat from my bedroom. When I returned to the main area, Sean was positioned behind one of my lace drapes, peeking out through the front window as if the semi-sheer curtains could hide him.
Outside, a loud crash preceded a thud. I tightened my grip on the bat, my palms sweating as muffled cursing and scuffling rose in volume until, finally, it stopped.
The silence haunting.
“Get off me, man!” one voice snapped.
“Whoever it is, is detained.” Sean walked to the front door.
“Wait!” I snapped.
But he opened it.
On the other side, one man was pinned up against the porch’s side wall, his arms restrained behind his back by some humongous man who reminded me of G.I. Joe. Behind him, out of breath and wearing nothing but workout shorts, was Hunter Lockwood.
“Get off me,” the pinned man shouted.
“Do you know this guy?” Hunter’s eyes narrowed at me.
G.I. Joe reluctantly released his iron-fisted grip and stepped back, allowing me to see who it was.
Standing at six foot four, he had a short black beard wrapped around a square jaw, staring at me with chocolate eyes that lay almost hidden beneath his bushy brows. His dark hair had a sprinkling of silver along the temples with tattoos wrapped around both arms.