Chapter Twenty-one

Presley snaked his way toward those trees. Toward the sonofabitch who'd been trying his damnest to kill them. Ironic that that SOB was the stepson of the man who'd fathered him.

And Presley doubted that was a coincidence.

Whoever had put this shitstorm together probably knew enough details to understand that Joe's stepsons might get a kick out of being hired to murder his bio-kid, Billie, Olivia, and anyone else who ended up being collateral damage. Hell, the plan could be to murder Joe and Victoria as well.

And that brought him back to Ari or Jesep. Heck, even Olivia.

One of them had to be behind this.

Once he'd taken care of Damon, Presley intended to get answers about that from Hattie. It was possible she didn't know who'd hired Damon, but she might have heard something that could help.

Overhead, Presley heard the whirring of the drone. Heard the occasional gunfire exchange between Angel and the SOB, but the loudest of the sounds were coming from the sirens. Judging from the volume, there was a small army of people waiting to assist. Angel would be their point of contact for that, but for the EMTs to come in, Presley first needed to eliminate the threat.

He kept moving, eating up the space between the trees and him. And hoping he had enough cover to keep his ass hidden so he didn't get shot. He thought of Billie, and the image of her flashed through his head.

An image of her naked and in his arms.

While it was a damn fine memory, he had to shove that aside plenty fast. Too much of a distraction. But later, he'd need to talk to her, too. To tell her how he felt about her.

"Later," he muttered, and he kept moving.

After what seemed a couple of eternities, Presley reached the tree line, and he bolted behind one of the oaks.

And immediately got shot at.

Damn it, the bullet had come so close that Presley thought he could feel the heat coming off it as it whizzed past his head. Apparently, his ass hadn't stayed hidden nearly well enough.

He drew in his body, trying to put as much as possible behind the tree. And he waited.

A moment earlier, he'd been thankful for the sirens, but now he wished he could kill the sound so he could hear. Damon could be moving in on him right now, and he wouldn't know it.

Presley dragged in a deep breath and dived out from the tree toward another one. In the same motion, he took aim in the direction of where that last shot had come. He didn't fire because no one was there.

He hit the ground behind the second tree and came up ready to shoot or be shot. But neither happened.

Where the hell was Damon?

Since he didn't have a clue, Presley scrambled behind another tree, his gaze firing all around. Until he spotted someone.

But it sure as hell wasn't the someone that he'd been expecting. Definitely not Damon.

Jesep.

The man was leaning out from a tree, and he had a gun. A gun he was in the process of aiming at Presley. So, he was the one behind this.

Presley felt the surge of hotter than hell anger along with a fresh hit of ice-cold adrenaline. He didn't need either to put an end to this shit.

"You should be dead," Jesep snarled. He fired, his shot slamming into the tree. He cursed and re-aimed. "And those losers I hired to do the job obviously failed."

Presley didn't respond. Not verbally, anyway. Using the sound of Jesep's voice, he homed in on the man's specific location. And once he had Jesep pinpointed, he adjusted his aim. He pulled the trigger.

And his shot sure as hell didn't hit a tree.

It slammed into Jesep, blowing the gun out of the man's hand and taking off a piece of his finger in the process. Oh, the irony of that. Sweet, sweet irony.

Jesep howled in pain. Music to Presley's ears, and he hurried to snatch up Jesep's gun so he couldn't try to retrieve it. When Presley stooped down, he soon saw the small arsenal of weapons right behind the asshole.

"You should be dead," Jesep spat out again.

"Yeah, yeah," Presley responded, catching onto Jesep by the collar and dragging him away from the other weapons.

Once he had the bleeding, cursing man a safe distance from the guns, Presley reached in his pocket for the plastic zip ties he always carried. He'd barely gotten them on the man when he heard a new sound.

A bad one.

A scream.

And he thought that it'd come from Hattie.

Hell in a big assed handbasket.

Something was wrong, and he was betting that something was Damon. Since Damon wasn't here, that meant he could have gone after Billie and Hattie.

Presley didn't commando crawl this time. He broke into a full-out sprint, tearing out the trees and racing to get to Billie. He didn't see her, but he sure as heck spotted Damon.

And he had a gun.

Presley had no doubts that his gun was poised and ready to murder Billie and Hattie.

He pulled up, getting into a position to take Damon out, but there were more gunshots. His heart stopped. Just stopped.

"Billie," he shouted.

He started running again. He had to get to her. He had to save her. But Presley soon saw that wasn't necessary.

Billie had already done the saving.

She was on her knees, her gun aimed at Damon, and the man was now sporting some gunshot wounds to the chest.

Fatal ones.

Damon dropped like the dead weight that he was.