Chase used that and the other cars lined up between his truck and his target as cover as he cautiously made his way closer. The gun in his right hand was like an extension of his arm. A lethal addition he wasn’t afraid to use.
He approached the man’s illegally plated car. With his left hand pressed against the rear panel’s cool metal, Chase kept himself balanced as he crept the final few inches.
When he made it to his mark, he glanced up at the car’s passenger side view mirror. Thanks to the glow from the streetlamp a few yards behind him, Chase could tell the car’s occupant was still looking the other way.
The passenger window was down, making his job that much easier. But something nagged within his rage-filled gut. Something he couldn’t bring himself to ignore.
His first reaction had been the guy was possibly a pro. Hell, Lucky had thought so, too. But as Chase remained squatted, he realized a full minute had passed, and the asshole had yet to even realize he was there.
So…not a pro.
No. The chances of that were dwindling fast. That didn’t mean, however, that the prick wasn’t dangerous. The question was who that danger was headed for…and why.
Time to find out.
Chase drew in a steadying breath. He kept his finger off the trigger, just as he’d been trained. In his head, he counted down from three and then…
“Move a fucking muscle and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”
He stood at the man’s passenger door. His SIG was pointed at the back of the man’s head. His focus bouncing between the spot he knew his bullet would hit and the camera resting casually across the man’s lap.
“W-what…what do you w-want?” The guy lifted his trembling hands slowly into the air. “I have m-money. It’s not a lot, b-but?—”
“I don’t want your fucking money, asshole,” Chase growled.
“Then w-what? If it’s drugs you’re after, y-you’ve got the wrong g-guy.”
That nagging feeling in his gut intensified. Something about this wasn’t right. The guy didn’t act anything like a pro. He was shaking from head-to-toe for Christ’s sake.
Could be an act.
It very well could be a show. A performance to throw him off his game. But it wasn’t going to work. Not when Scottie’s safety might be in jeopardy.
“What I want”—Chase spoke slowly—“is for you to keep those hands right where they are. Now, I’m going to come around the front of your car, and then I’m going to open your door. On my command, you will get out of your car, and if you make a single move that could be construed as a threat, I will put a bullet through your fucking brain. Tell me you understand.”
“I-I understand.”
“Good.”
Moving swiftly, he rounded the car’s front bumper. Chase kept his gun held tight and at the ready as he opened the door and stood to the side.
“Get out.”
The man started to reach for his camera, but Chase used his free hand to fist the guy’s black jacket and yank him out of the car.
“Hey! What are you?—”
“Don’t go reaching for shit, dumbass!” He kept his voice low but the command sharp as the man and his camera fell to the pavement below. “Link your fingers behind your head.”
The man didn’t fight back or disobey. He did what Chase said when Chase said it. And the man was still literally quivering in his boots.
“Who hired you to follow me?”
“I’m not f-following you,” the scared man claimed. “I don’t even know who you are!”
“Bullshit!” He squatted down and pressed the gun against the back of the man’s skull. “I saw you.”
“I swear!”