Forgetting about Mara’s whining demand for answers, forgetting about everything, Cole took off running up the narrow alley that ran between Rocki’s store and the building next door. As he ran, he called 9-1-1. He tore into the back parking lot just in time to see her bringing something down on a man’s head. She was pinned beneath him—pale, struggling. Cole exploded. With a roar, he dove for the other man, taking him down. The next few seconds passed in a blur, yet some parts were insanely clear. He could remember shoving the bastard to the pavement, could remember driving his fist into his face, once. Twice. Then he remembered, clear as day, a hand on his arm. Rocki. Then there were sirens. “You’re wasting you’re fucking time,” Dwayne said, his voice thick and nasally, distorted by his broken nose and a swollen lip. Between the head injury Rocki had dealt him with the broken bottle and the damage Cole had done, the man was not in good shape. But he was still belligerent and full of attitude as he fought against the cop who was slapping him into cuffs.
