Page 30 of Property of Tacoma

He’s massive. Hands down the biggest guy I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s gotta’ be every bit of six feet five and built like a linebacker.

I flinch involuntarily as another punch lands. I’ve taken plenty of hits in my time, and it never feels good.

The big guy steps back, panting slightly from the exertion, and reaches behind his back. My eyes drop to the black pistol grip sticking out of the waistband of his jeans.

Shit.

He pulls it free and aims it at Bane’s head.

Damn it.

I promised my brother I wouldn’t shoot anyone, but I can’t exactly let this big fucker execute the Kings’ VP, now can I?

“You’re going to hell where you fucking belong,” the big fucker snarls, pressing the barrel against Bane’s forehead.

Shit.

Bane, despite his battered face, narrows his eyes to slits and spits blood on the giant’s boots. “Fuck you, Skid.”

Double shit.

I’m pulling my guns from their holsters before I can think twice about it, aiming one at the men holding Bane and the other at the giant fixing to end Tacoma’s brother’s life.

“Hey!” I shout, my voice surprisingly steady considering the adrenaline pumping through my veins. “Let him go.”

Three heads whip around in my direction, and the two men holding onto Bane’s arms release him immediately. Bane falls to his knees, coughing and spitting blood onto the sand-covered ground.

“Get the fuck out of here, bitch,” Baldy with the tattoos on his head yells, reaching for his weapon.

“Yeah, get the fuck out of here, bitch,” his bearded buddy echoes.

I narrow my eyes, rage building in my chest. “What did you just call me?”

My fingers twitch against the triggers of my guns, just itching to put these assholes down like the fucking dogs they are.

Chief would bitch, of course, but I’d clean up the mess before anyone was the wiser.

No harm, no foul, right?

“You’re making a big fucking mistake, cunt,” Tattoo-Head sneers.

“Yeah! You’re making a big fucking mistake, cunt,” Beardy parrots.

Who the hell are these clowns? Pete and RePete?

My eyes dip to the patch on Beardy’s cut.

Hammer.

I barely keep from rolling my eyes. I bet he came up with that on his own. Probably thought of his microdick when he did.

My gaze then sweeps over Bane’s busted-up face as I reply, “No, sweetie. I’m not. But you are.” I level my gun at Tattoo-Head’s face.

“Skid, shoot that fucking cunt.”

The big man—apparently Skid—growls as he swings his gun away from Bane’s head, pointing it at me.

On instinct, everything my grandfather has taught me over the years kicks in, and I charge his big ass.