Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 114647 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 573(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114647 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 573(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
“What?” She half yelled.
“You heard me.” I said, laughing at the absurd thought. “That’s why you’ve been only giving me half ass moves?”
“Yeah,” She said, trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice. “I really could hurt you, you know.”
“You could try.”
“What, you don’t think that a woman could bring you down?” She asked.
“I think that you have a chance to get away, not to completely subdue me. You sure would try, but no matter what, a man is always going to be stronger and faster than any woman.” I said carefully.
“So let me get this straight,” she said. “You don’t think I can take you down. In fact, you don’t think that any woman could take you down.”
“Right.” I agreed.
“What do you want to bet?” She asked.
I could see the wheels turning in her head, thinking carefully.
“Anything. You could bet anything. I know for certain you couldn’t incapacitate me for more than a few seconds.”
I should’ve known. I mean, I knew there were ways that she could take me down. I just didn’t think she knew any yet. I hadn’t gotten that far with her as to teach her those. She wasn’t even learning the most basic form of self-defense. However, in the next instant she proved me wrong.
“Deal.” She said, and then I watched, as if in slow motion, when her hand snapped out, palm rigid, as she brought it down into a hard, sharp strike against the carotid artery on the side of my neck.
I came to, seconds later, to find myself staring at the ceiling. I blinked once. Twice, a third time, and then sat up.
My head was pounding, my back ached, and I turned my head and found Shiloh all the way across the room, a sheepish expression on her face.
“Does that count?” She asked.
“Yes,” I said, embarrassed, but also proud as hell that she was able to do that.
“Where did you learn that move?” I rasped.
“YouTube.” She supplied instantly.
I shook my head and muttered. “YouTube.”
“So what do I have to do?”
I was sorry that I asked.
Chapter 19
There’s not crying in baseball.
-A League Of Their Own.
Shiloh
Tapping the button on the side of my blue tooth headset, I replaced my hands on the wheel, and tilted my head forward so my hair covered the blue tooth device once again.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Ms. Mackenzie?” A strange male’s voice asked from the other end of the line.
“Yes,” I said hesitantly.
Looking left, then right, I pulled out into traffic, and headed West to Fourth Street. I was heading to a case’s house, and I was in a hurry. Normally I wouldn’t have even answered the strange number, but James said he’d be calling me from work right about now, and I thought it was him.
“This is Albert Buchanan with the Longview News. Do you have a few spare moments to speak with me?” He asked.
“Yes.” I clipped.
He sighed. “I understand your position on the matter of the article that was printed in our paper on Sunday morning. We’ve retracted it, and had the reporter issue a public apology. I wanted to call and get your permission to print the letter that you sent the editor.” Albert explained.
“Uhh,” I hesitated.
I didn’t see anything wrong with it, and if I was being truthful, I wanted the world to know how upset I was that an article like that was written that completely overshadowed the real issue at hand- that a very young woman and her son died in a very horrible way.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “I’d like that.”
“Excellent. We’ll be running it in tomorrow’s paper. Please be on the lookout for it.” Albert explained.
After a few more pleasantries, we hung up, and I pulled into the Newman’s driveway. I sighed when I looked at the clock and realized I was still fifteen minutes earlier than our scheduled appointment.
The Newman’s were a new case. The case itself was fairly routine. Child abuse wasn’t abnormal in today’s society. What was abnormal was for it to be grandparents accused of doing the abuse. Normally, it was the parents being accused and then the children would be relocated with their maternal or paternal grandparents if able.
The Newman’s case was of two children, ages seven months, and five, reportedly showing up to daycare with unexplained bruises. The daycare official was the one to contact child protective services, and I was called out to the Newman’s house to do an unscheduled well check.
Forgetting that I was waiting for James’ call, I got out of the car, grabbing my briefcase on the way, and walked swiftly to the front walk. After several knocks, the door was cracked open, and a grizzly voice emerged.
“What you want?” The man asked.
“Hello,” I said to the door. “I’m Shiloh Mackenzie with child protective services. May I come in?” I asked authoritatively.
“No.” He snapped, and then slammed the door in my face.
I sighed.
Normally, right about now, I would call the police to ask for assistance, but for some reason, my inner warning meter had taken a detour, and I didn’t use the opportunity to call for assistance like I should have. Instead, I knocked again.
When the door opened this time, I got a face full of shotgun.
“Get inside. Now.” The old man demanded as he flung the door open wide.
Not knowing what else to do, I woodenly followed his instructions. When I crossed the threshold, the first thing I saw was the massive amount of firearms spaced sporadically throughout the house. In Texas, it’s normal for people to have firearms.
What’s not normal is for them to have that many. I counted over sixty guns in crevices, on the couch, hanging on the walls, propped up in corners, laying over every available surface, and stuffed in between couch cushions.
And those were just the ones I could see.
Then there were the bullets. And shot gun shells. All shapes, sizes, and colors. I wasn’t a gun expert by any means, but I knew that this wasn’t normal. For someone with this type of collection, I would think that they would have them in a safe, or up high, out of the reach of small children.