Chapter 40

Aunt Fae was tiedto a chair with bungee cords on her ankles and wrists. A dishtowel had been stuffed in her mouth, and a man was in the act of duct-taping it into place.

The gasp I'd given brought his gaze around to lock with mine. He was familiar, and not in a good way.

"How do you like it now?" he said. "Someone comin' to your home and messin' with your family?"

I said nothing.

"'Cuz of the likes of you, I had to give up my daughter. Twice. First, she gets messed up while I was in Iraq and I couldn't do nuthin' about it. Then I find her again and you show up and I know they'll take her away."

Hugh Dragoon was clearly unbalanced. I had to assess how armed he was; I couldn't see a weapon from my angle, but Auntie kept darting her widened eyes to the left. She was trying to signal me about something.

"You're all so stupid. I been watching you for a while now. Even came inside here. Found this here gun, but you didn't do nothing about it."

He lifted his arm with a grin that revealed bad teeth.

Now I saw the gun.

My gun.

"Oh, crud on a crouton," I whispered. There was always one round in the chamber, even if he hadn't found the extra ammo.

Aunt Fae stared at me, terrified. I locked eyes with her and jerked my head to the right, hoping she got the message. Then I leaped out from behind the wall, lunging at Dragoon with an earsplitting yell designed to throw off his focus.

Aunt Fae used her feet to shove her chair; it crashed to the floor, hopefully taking her out of the line of fire. I had one objective: the big hairy hand holding the weapon.

I body-slammed into Dragoon, catching his gun hand in both of mine and knocking it high. He seemed to stutter-step backward, still holding the weapon, then spun and sprinted for the front door.

I squatted beside Auntie and pulled the partially secured towel out of her mouth. "Are you injured?"

"No," she croaked, and ran her tongue around her lips in an effort to moisten them. "Don't let him get away. But be careful, remember he's got your gun."

Like I could forget! Dragoon was right. I'd been stupid not to lock it up after I noticed it had been moved after he broke in.

Dragoon had left the front door open in his getaway. I bolted after him. It felt good to stretch my legs to run as I pursued the target, even though the pareo flapped open and the rough driveway scraped my bare feet as if I was getting an overexuberant pedicure. The suspect had made it to the bend in the driveway so I couldn't see him, but I heard a distinctive yowl and then, a human cry of pain.

Tiki!

I made it over the rise in time to see my raccoon-sized mama cat clinging to the man's upper back like a bronc rider. She'd latched on, her one ear pinned back, her body's thick fur all a-bristle. All four of her feet were dug into Dragoon's flannel shirt as she sank her formidable claws into him. Her kinked tail was extended, stiff with rage, as she attempted to bite the back of his neck.

Dragoon yelled, windmilling his arms to dislodge her, and then spotted me. He fired a shot that whizzed by my left ear with surprising accuracy.

This guy obviously knew his way around a Glock. My laulau was thoroughly baked if he'd found the magazine that gave him fifteen more rounds.

Dragoon fired again.

This time, the weapon made an empty "click." He hadn't found the ammo!

Dragoon tossed the gun and grabbed for the door handle of the SUV. Tiki took the opportunity to sink her teeth into his neck. He howled and reached around, trying to swat her away. I seized the moment to lift my pareo off and toss it over his head, enveloping him in a mass of bright blue fabric.

In the tangle of cloth and pissed-off cat, Dragoon tripped. On his way down, his head struck Sharkey's side with a hollow metallic thump, followed by a thud as he hit the asphalt.

His prone body lay still, the printed batik seashells on the pareo settling over him like a deflating parachute.

Tiki crawled out from under the fabric, hissing her displeasure with the entire situation. She streaked off into the bushes.

I stared down at the man, waiting to see if he moved. In my eagerness to apprehend Dragoon, I might have killed him.

Aunt Fae trotted to where I was standing, carrying her favorite weapon—the cast iron skillet. She dropped it beside the useless gun and glared at the man in the road. "Hope he's dead," she said.

I prodded the inert body at my feet with a bare toe. "He might be."

"So? He tied me up to use as a hostage. He wanted to kill you."

I had a lot of questions. I started with the first one. "How did you get free?"

"Pfft. Those bungee cords? Pathetic excuse for restraints. They stretch, you know."

At that moment, a loud jacked up purple truck roared up to join us—Pono's ride, Stanley. Right behind was Keone's green vehicle of similar make and model.

Pono jumped out of the driver's seat with a grin. "Now, here's a sight you don't see every day."

I glanced down—my lacy black bra and boy shorts were barely decent. "I needed to restrain the perp." I pointed to the discarded pareo covering the fallen man.

"Kat saved me from the hermit bomber!" Aunt Fae exclaimed. "He took me prisoner and tried to kill her."

Keone had slipped out of his truck. He carried one of his large beach towels. He draped it around me, covering me up.

"Oh, that's nice," I murmured into the warm terry cloth as Keone's arms tightened around me. Being wrapped up like this in his arms and towel felt so good. "Thanks."

"I don't call you ‘Trouble,' for nothing," he whispered into my ear. "Are you okay?"

"Better than okay." I was beginning to shiver, though, with the aftereffects of adrenaline.

Pono squatted beside the immobile suspect and lifted the pareo from his face. He pressed two fingers against the man's neck.

"There's a pulse and he's breathing," he declared. "He's alive." He took out his phone and punched in 911, giving his badge number and calling for assistance.

I gazed down at Dragoon's pallid face. The good news was that there was no blood or other evidence of a skull fracture. The bad news was that the man was out cold and head wounds could be fatal without making a mess.

Now that the danger was over, I took a minute to examine the prone man at my feet. I squatted to lift the man's T-shirt away at the neckline, exposing wounds from Tiki's teeth that were definitely going to call for a tetanus shot.

There was a tattoo on the man's neck, a smudged blue diamond outlining the initials, "JAD." Jennifer Ann Dragoon.

I wished I could feel sorry for the man who'd experienced so much heartbreak, but I didn't. He'd passed it on to others in the worst ways.