Wired - Douglas E. Richards [1]
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about!” she snapped.
Callan closed the gap between them in the blink of an eye and shoved the long barrel of the silencer roughly against the side of her head. He reached out with his other hand and grabbed her chin, forcing her face mere inches from his. Callan was a muscular six-foot-three and his meaty paws were enormous.
“For a smart chick, you’re just not getting it,” he hissed. “Things have changed. I don’t work for you anymore. I’m the one giving the orders now! You’ll do as I say or I’ll break you in half.” He gave her chin and lower face a quick, powerful squeeze, so strong that several of her teeth cut into the inside of her mouth, drawing blood. “Have I made myself clear!” he whispered through clenched teeth, finally releasing her chin.
She rubbed her chin and glared at him with such a feral intensity he expected holes to appear in the back of his head.
“Admit your real name is Kira Miller or I’ll break your left arm,” he growled fiercely.
She continued to glare at him as she considered his threat. “Okay,” she said finally. “So I’m Kira Miller. So what? I’m paying you and Jason a small fortune to protect me, and you’re putting that in serious jeopardy.”
Callan laughed. “You think?” he said sarcastically. He shook his head. “Thanks for your concern, but I won’t be needing your small fortune anymore. I’m trading it for a large one.” He grabbed her arm and shoved her in the direction of the garage. “Let’s go,” he barked. “I’m not going to ask again.”
As she walked toward the garage she detoured a few yards to snatch a jean jacket draped over the back of a chair, and quickly slipped it on. Callan shook his head in disbelief. It was still almost sixty degrees outside. In November! Positively balmy. Callan had lived in Chicago much of his life, but he knew that after only a few years of being spoiled in the paradise climate of San Diego the pathetic residents became hypersensitive to cold.
As they reached the door that led to the garage, she turned completely around to face him, looking as though she wanted to ask a question, her right hand now buried in the coat’s right pocket. Callan reacted instinctively, twisting away from her before his conscious mind knew why, just as a small caliber bullet tore through her pocket and dug a shallow, five-inch-long groove across his stomach. If he had not turned when he did, the bullet would have bored a hole straight through his gut.
Callan threw his massive body into Kira Miller and slammed her into the door before she could get off another shot. While she was still dazed, he wrestled her arm from her pocket and easily ripped the Glock subcompact she had hidden there from her fingers.
He could feel the wetness of his blood as it slid from his wound and soaked into his nowtorn shirt, but he knew the injury was superficial and not in need of immediate attention. He spun his former client around roughly and began to frisk her, something he should have done from the start. He had assumed she was content to leave security to her two hired mercenaries, but it was clear she had taken additional precautions of her own. He found a small canister of pepper spray attached to her lower leg, but no other weapons.
He considered roughing her up a bit as punishment for her attack, but decided against it. If he injured her, she would be more difficult to manage, and it was his carelessness that had allowed the attempt anyway. Besides, he had made certain she was all out of surprises.
Callan opened the door to the garage and shoved her through, hitting the light switch as he did so. The girl almost tripped over the body of Jason Bobkoski lying face down on the gray concrete floor, a hole drilled through his heart from behind by a silenced weapon at point blank range. Streams of bright-red blood branched out from the body like so many fingers and disappeared under Kira’s white Lexus sedan.
Kira glared at Callan with contempt, but said nothing. Most women would