I mow him over and we go down together. Jon catches up, but now he's not worried about me, he's focused on Ronin.
And there's no f**king way this batshit-crazy woman-beater is gonna hurt my new friends.
So I shoot that f**ker.
And the gunshot is so loud, it rings in my ears long after Jon falls to the floor, screaming.
Chapter Thirty-Five - RONIN
The smoke is still spilling out of the barrel of the revolver in Rook's hand and that psycho ra**st is writhing on the floor, his knee blown out and blood pooling under his body. Rook and I are all tangled up and she's shaking uncontrollably as I try to move her aside and figure out what the f**k is going on.
Spencer comes barreling in from the back door, while Ford enters from the front.
"Yes," Ford says into his phone. "I need an ambulance, there's been a shooting at Chaput Studios… "
Rook gasps and looks back at me. I put a hand on her shoulder. "Keep calm, Gidge. I'm not f**king around right now, let me handle this." I hold out my hand. "Give me the gun."
She looks down at the gun, then over to her ex. He's moaning on the ground, blood is still spilling out at an alarming rate.
My little Gidget might've hit an artery.
I smile at that, then turn back to her. "Rook, look at me. We've got about three minutes before the cops get here."
She nods her head and hands the gun over.
"You are in shock, OK? Do not say anything. You are in shock. Do you understand me?"
She nods again.
"The whole building is wired, we've got it all on tape. But you are in shock, you will not make a statement until the shock wears off."
I get up and then pull her up along with me.
"Is he gonna die, Ronin?" Her voice is very small and shaky as the reality of what just happened sinks in.
"No, Gidge, we're not gonna let him die. Death is too good for that prick." I take her hand and walk her out the back door. There's people everywhere now. Elise and Antoine are talking to the crew, just getting back from breakfast. Elise is bordering on hysterical, while Antoine catches my gaze and rushes over babbling frantically in French.
"She's OK, she's fine. Let us handle this, Antoine. You two were at breakfast across town, you never saw anything, so step the f**k back and just say I have no idea over and over until they get sick of asking you questions."
I open Spencer's truck door and sit Rook down on the passenger side. "Pay close attention, Gidget." She's scared out of her mind right now, so I lean in and kiss her on the head just as half a dozen Denver police pull in the back alley. "You're in shock, remember? Just stay quiet until I'm done talking."
I'm not the genius who perfected this plan.
That's Spencer.
I'm not the hacker who executed this plan.
That's Ford.
I'm the liar who cleans up the mess.
And my job starts now.
"Threatening text messages," I tell the cops. Because that's innocent, really. Easy. And you always want the job to be easy. "If you check his phone, you'll see he sent her text messages this morning, threatening to kill her, me, all of us."
The law about searching cell phones is iffy at best, so we needed a fool-proof way to make sure his phone would be checked on scene—no room for mistakes, no way to hide what he's got on there.
Jon is too smart to send threats by text. But Ford took care of that because sending threats, followed by Jon's genius plan of breaking and entering and attempted murder, means no search warrant is required to access the phone and look for that evidence.
And guess what pops up on the home screen of our friend Jon as soon as the cop swipes his chubby fingers to wake it up?
No really, just guess.
It's almost a giveaway, the Feds use this one all the time. Our version is a new take on the long con bait-and-switch, because we're super-awesome lying, hacking geniuses like that.
Possession of kiddie p**n in this day and age is the equivalent of tax evasion last century. That's how they always got the bad guys back then, all those mobsters. Something stupid simple like claiming too many dinners on your taxes.
And let's face it, our boy Jon is one hundred percent guilty of pedophilia, right?
Sure, we set up the photos the cops are confiscating from his phone right now.
But this f**k deserved it.
And believe me, they'll find a whole shitload more at his apartment down the street. Not to mention a transaction, executed less than an hour ago, where he tried to buy more illegal p**n , thinking he was purchasing a live cam peek at Rook.
I might love Ford right now.
Rook listens carefully as I talk, I can tell. But she keeps her head down and her mouth shut.
"Shock," I say again. "She needs a doctor. Maybe a psychiatrist. He damaged her for years—violent, horrific beatings. Torture. She's not capable of talking right now. We've got a team of lawyers here to make sure she's competent to give a statement."
That shuts down the questioning, because she's not in any trouble here, not at all. All they want is a way to dot the i's and cross the t's so everyone can get the hell out of this parking lot and go grab some lunch.
If you're stupid enough to break into someone's home and attack the occupants in Colorado—and Chaput Studios is most certainly Rook's home at the moment—you're gonna get your ass shot and the person who shot you will never be charged.