Chapter 9

Brady closed his mouth. “Poppy?”

“Yes.” Heather swallowed hard. “Please. Come with me!”

“Would he do that?”

“Oh Brady, you have no idea. Hank is a monster!”

Heather’s words cut deep into Brady’s soul. But, so am I.

He glanced down at her tiny British-made coupe. There was no way he could fit in that toy car. Besides, if this idiot was truly a threat, Brady wanted to have his truck, his Glock .40 S&W, his Remington 870.12 gauge, and his Winchester 300 magnum, just in case.

“I’ll follow you!” he growled, “Just let me...” He ran to his house and upstairs, two steps at a time. He shoved the wet boots off his cold feet, pulled out a fresh pair of socks, and slid them on his feet while hopping across the room. Lifting another pair of boots he kept at the foot of his bed, he took hold of the straps and shoved his foot inside. The wet jeans would have to do. He ran back into the yard, Hudson loping at his side. “Not now, boy. Stay!”

Hudson sat on the porch with a huge canine sigh, his tongue lolling over his jaw. But he stayed.

Heather had turned her car around and was facing toward the road, her engine running. Brady nodded toward her and she took off. He leapt into his truck and peeled out to follow her.

The winding, twisting road between Penrose and Colorado Springs had never seemed so far to drive. Heather pushed the limits of her little car taking the sharp curves at too high a speed for the laws of the state and the laws of physics. Brady stayed close behind her, praying they weren’t delayed because she rolled her car out of control. The Mini Cooper held its traction despite the treacherous snaky turns.

Turning off Highway 115, Heather darted into a residential area with older refurbished homes. She paused at the stop signs, bounced across the dips, and continued down a side street. She slammed to a halt in front of a small cottage-style house. A single-car driveway lead to the back where a separate garage gave a boundary line to the backyard. A Jeep Wrangler and an older model Bronco sat in the narrow driveway. The truck would be the first to leave.

Brady considered those options. Hopefully, if Hank proved to be as out-of-control as Heather indicated he could be, Brady could convince him to leave, until he cooled down. Or sobered up.

He pulled his Glock from the glove box and slid it into the back of his pants and took down his .12 gauge from the gun rack at his back window. He chambered a round with the skillful jerk and stepped out of his truck. The deer rifle he left behind, but he knew where it was should the need arise.

Heather ran to the front door. She didn’t even knock but rushed inside. “Poppy!”

Brady followed her just like he’d been here a hundred times for family holiday gatherings or game night. An ache in his heart cinched, drawing his chest tight. His eyes swept the front room, assessing the situation. He’d entered stone homes in Iraq with this same avidity, but this wasn’t Iraq. It was not a shoot-to-kill situation. He let the shotgun swing down by his side.

“Heather!” Poppy’s voice sounded hoarse. “In the kitchen!”

A soft mewling cry came from the hallway. The girls.

Brady sniffed. The beast smelled a sludge of Hank’s stale alcohol, sweat, jealous rage, and Poppy’s fear.

Brady’s nostrils flared at the stench. He gritted his teeth, keeping the monster at bay.

Heather ran into the back kitchen and halted abruptly. “Hank! Don’t do this!”

Brady slid to a halt behind Heather. Hank held a Taurus .357 with a trembling hand. He swayed as unfocused eyes rolled over toward Heather.

“You naugh welcome, li’l sisser.” Hank slurred. His .357 tottered loosely in his hand.

Poppy had pressed herself into a corner of the kitchen cabinets. Terror filled her bloodshot eyes. All color was absent in her face.

Hank slowly blinked, staggering back, then he saw Brady. A steeling effect swept over Hank as he straightened his back and stiffened his legs. His eyes bulged. “Well. Another of your boyfriends has come to your aid, huh, Poppy? Poor damsel-in-destress, Poppy.” The oily words slid off his tongue like the sludge that filled Brady’s nostrils. “How many of these sons of bitches you got? Huh? How many men have violated our marriage bed?”

He pressed up close to Poppy, forcing the gun against her cheek. She repulsed back from his hot, foul breath assaulting her nose. She leaned as far as she could, but it was impossible for her to get away from him. He had her trapped against the cabinets and the gun barrel dug under her prominent cheekbone.

“That’s enough!” Brady demanded as he laid the shotgun on the raised bar.

Hank jerked his head toward him, staggering back from Poppy.

“You’re drunk.” Brady continued. “And an idiot!”

Hank reeled toward Brady, wobbling a step then two. Heather leapt behind Brady, around Hank, and grabbed Poppy’s wrist, pulling her into a protective embrace beside the refrigerator. Poppy collapsed against her sister and sobbed.

Brady snatched the loose gun from Hank’s hand in one swift movement, while grabbing his thumb and twisting it and Hank around to face away from Brady. He clamped the thumb toward the man’s wrist. Hank arched his back, kicking his feet, and yowled in pain.

“Come with me.” Brady backed up with Hank in tow. He lifted the shotgun from the bar with his free hand as they moved out of the kitchen.

His eyes met Heather’s. “She alright?”

Heather nodded. “I think so.”

Brady made his way in tandem to the front yard. Hank struggled but was no match for the former Navy Seal or the thumb clamp he maintained. “Now Hank, I need you to settle down.”

Hank winced. “You’re hurting me!”

“Well. Stop this nonsense, and I won’t have to hurt you.”

Hank stopped struggling. Brady eased off the vise grip he had on the man’s thumb. Hank relaxed. Brady felt the fight wan from Hank’s body.

Brady let go. “Now—”

Hank spun around, his fist doubled up, aimed straight for Brady’s face. Brady leaned back, just dodging the impact. Hank fell forward with the motion of the missed punch and landed on the ground. Brady lifted the butt of his shotgun and brought it down on the back of Hank’s head. The man lay lifeless in the grass.

Brady looked around for any curious neighbors and knelt next to him, touching his carotid artery to be certain he hadn’t killed him. Then stood. He opened the passenger door, put his shotgun in the rack, and turned to Hank’s limp form. Lifting him by the shoulders, Brady swiveled him to his feet and folded him into the seat. Fastening the seat belt across his chest helped hold him upright. Brady closed the door.

As he walked around to the driver’s side, he glanced up at the house. Heather and her sister stood at the front door, holding one another, watching Brady. He tipped his head back in salutation. “I’ll take him to a motel, let him sleep it off. You two alright?”

Heather pursed a half smile and nodded. She pulled her sister from the storm door and closed the door.

Brady leapt into the cab of his truck and drove to Woodland Park. Distance and space seemed like a good idea for Poppy and the girls to feel safe. At least for the night.

He stopped at the first motel he came to. It wasn’t a Hilton, but it wasn’t an hourly stay either. It would do for his buddy, Hank, to sober up. He parked in the roundabout, where a large bush blocked the counter attendant’s view of Hank’s unconscious body. Brady shook his head as he jogged inside to secure a single room until morning.

With the card key in hand, Brady drove around to a parking spot right outside the room. He opened the door, and left it ajar, then walked to his truck. Gently, he opened the passenger door. Hank stirred but didn’t wake up. Brady sighed. “Okay. Let’s get you inside.”

He unbuckled the seat belt and pulled Hank out of the seat. Propping him up by putting his arm around Brady’s neck, he held him against his side with a tight grip at his waist. Weekend with Bernie came to mind, and Brady chuckled. He could only imagine how bizarre they looked.

Once in the room, Brady let Hank fold down on the queen-size mattress. He pulled the man’s shoes off and eased his body up to the pillow. “Now, you should be alright ‘til you wake up and can’t figure out where you are.” Brady chuckled. “I’ll let you figure that one out, Hank.”

Brady turned, but a hand grabbed his elbow, pivoting him off balance. He turned his head to look over his shoulder as Hank hooked his other arm around Brady’s throat. “You son-of-a-bitch!”

Hank squeezed his arm across Brady’s windpipe.

Brady grabbed hold of Hank’s arm with both hands and forced the pressure off his trachea. He used the counter momentum to pull Hank forward and off the bed. Brady scrambled to stand, but Hank clawed at his shoulders, toppling Brady onto the man.

Hank’s air whooshed from his lungs, but he kept swinging punches and flailing his legs. Brady couldn’t get turf to stand. He caught one of Hank’s wrists and held it tight. Then he caught the other. Rocking to his knees, Brady struggled to stand, bringing Hank with him. But Hank wriggled and twisted, freeing his wrist. Brady felt the gun pull from his pants.

“Ah!” Why hadn’t he locked that in his glove box? He staggered away from Hank, with his hands up in surrender. “Now, Hank. I’m just trying to help you, buddy.

“Like hell you are.” Hank barked. “You’re stealing my woman!”

“No.” Brady glanced at the gun. Hank had taken the safety off. Damn. “You got that all wrong. I only met your wife at the Girl Scout camp, remember? I was the one who found your little girl.” Geesh, what were that kids name? “ ... Mable, right?”

Hank wavered, then he stiffened. Aiming the Glock straight at Brady’s heart. “So, you think just cause you were the hero, you can sleep with my wife?”

“Buddy, you got this all twisted.” Brady searched his mind to make this idiot understand. Man, what a sack of insecure shit he must be to be so jealous of nothing. “I’m Brady Armstrong.” Brady lowered one of his hands to splay his fingers on his chest. “I dated Heather ... a long time ago.”