Reunion by Meli Raine

Author:Meli Raine [Raine, Meli]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: BBW Romance, Coming of Age, Contemporary, Contemporary Fiction, Contemporary Women, Fiction, General, Genre Fiction, Literature & Fiction, Mystery & Suspense, New Adult, New Adult & College, Romance, Romantic Suspense, Suspense, Women's Fiction
Publisher: Prosaic Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Galt’s response is just a half-second too late. But a half-second is all it takes.

“What other son?” he scoffs. Loogie’s face goes slack.

Oh, no.

I feel more danger right now than I did while El Brujo was alive.

“The DEA agent. Don’t jack with me like that, Galt. I’m no sucker. I kept that little secret in my back pocket.” He kicks El Brujo’s dead body. The tip of Frenchie’s boot catches El Brujo’s shoulder and he rolls slightly. A piece of greyish-peach tissue falls out of the back of his head.

I retch. Allie makes a curdled sound in her throat and her hand holding the gun begins to shake.

“What the fuck you talking about, Frenchie? You been taking some of that meth El Brujo’s got you moving?” Loogie is dismissive and taunting at the same time. His hand tightens around the gun he’s holding.

Frenchie presses the gun so hard into my jaw I feel my joint pop.

Loogie and Galt don’t budge.

Allie points the gun right at Frenchie’s head, though, and takes a step forward.

“I’ll pop your little friend here just like you took care of El Brujo, Girlie Girl,” he warns. But he takes a step back, pulling me with him. The grip on the gun lessens slightly. My hip pushes into the metal rim of the open pipe behind us.

And then Frenchie’s entire body tightens like he’s inhaling sharply and holding his breath.

Something grabs my bad arm and yanks down, hard. It doesn’t take much for me to lose my balance and fall like a sack of potatoes.

I fall to the floor on my back and look up to find Mark’s face poking out from the open pipe, his hand holding the hilt of a knife he’s twisting into Frenchie’s kidney. Mark’s face is shockingly devoid of emotion. He is an automaton on a mission.

A mission to gut Frenchie alive.

Frenchie’s fingers thread through the cloth of my shirt and rip it with a sickening pull, the sound and the feel of the weave biting into whatever skin I have that isn’t hurt. A piece threads between my ribs and it’s like a rope burn, one that slides through my neck, shoulder, ribs and hip, until the rope just lets go.

I’m attached to a twitching Frenchie, though, whose wild eyes meet mine as he gurgles and gags, hands flailing, reaching for the gun he dropped.

And then Galt takes one step forward and puts a bullet in Frenchie’s head.

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