Protect and Serve Don't Need A Hero by Lena Austin Page A

crews working all over the city, and even had one offer to work in fucking Dubai of all places. Rat was considering his options. In the meantime, Amigos Construction, owned by all four of the original team, was making us all rich, and Beans was busily seeing to it we were all going to be nearly as rich as Dustin. I was a little scared of all that fucking money. I didn’t want to end up like my first family and stop caring.
    I frowned and took the exit to Beach Boulevard. The famous bright yellow arches were a few miles down and right on our way. I was going to lounge in the sun, build sand castles with the kids, and stop feeling lonely, dammit.
    I did feel weird driving the fancy-ass Mercedes, even if it was twenty years old and owned by Dustin’s dad before he passed away. My beat-up, filthy F-150 wasn’t suitable for taking kids to the beach, and Dustin had thrown the keys at me. “Please take it out and use it, Petey-girl. The chauffeur spent twenty years keeping it in tip-top shape. Seems a shame not to have it driven once in a blue moon at least.”
    So I drove the Mercedes, feeling very out of place. My truck was good enough for me, thank you, but I have to admit driving the old Mercedes was to be steeped in luxury. I ran one hand over the real wood panel and almost missed the turn into the fast food joint. What the hell was I thinking? I didn’t want luxury, and I damn sure didn’t need it. Despite a hefty bank balance, I’d be damned if I ever got so snobby I didn’t enjoy the simple, old-fashioned things like a greasy burger and fries.
    Fuck it. Just fuck it. One step at a time.
    I ordered the kiddy meals and indulged in a fish sandwich for myself. The kids cheered when I ordered chocolate shakes for all. It’s nice to be the hero sometimes, ya know?
    After the cheerful acknowledgement of their order, the total, and the request to drive forward, I inched around the narrow curve of the drive-though. I remember I wished Mickey D’s would think about the drive-through design a little more carefully. I was totally hemmed in by the cement wall on one side and the lovely view of the Dumpster, the employee parking lot full of kids’ jalopies, and a few scrub oaks. Not much of a great view, but the morning was still cool enough to leave the windows down. The car had that funny, old people smell to it.
    The view got worse when we rounded the curve toward the pickup window. People fled from the doors into the parking lot. I glanced in through the narrow little window where I would have gotten my food delivered, and I could hear screams and gunfire. Oh, fucking wonderful! Unless I was willing to run the fleeing customers over, I was trapped in the drive-through.
    Seconds later, a guy in metal knit -- really? Seriously? Chain mail? -- and waving a large gun came through the door. He carried a bag covered in red-orange dye, which also decorated his face and costume. The paint didn’t improve his looks. He saw me, wrenched open my door, and tried to drag me from the vehicle.
    I choked and fought, but the old seatbelt and harness fought me just as much. The webbing cut into my hips and choked off my breathing, but I wasn’t going anywhere without hitting the release button, and I’d be damned if I’d leave the kids behind with that asshole.
    Angelina and the baby were screaming their heads off, adding to the mayhem. Angelina threw her teddy bear at the perp, but missed and hit me instead.
    For three seconds, I wondered what had hit me from behind. Then the bastard with the vermilion face backhanded me.
    I fell back against the seat, stunned and shaking my head. A beam had fallen on me once, and I’d seen stars, but this was worse. No one had ever hit me before.
    “Since you won’t move, bitch, I’ll sit on your fat ass!” He sat in my lap, wedging himself between the steering wheel and me.
    By the way, I’m not fat, but having a full-grown man smashing me into the fancy leather seats made me feel like an