Sister's Revenge: Action Adventure Assassin Pulp Thriller Book #1 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Assassin) by Lori Jean Grace, S. Jay Jackson
Authors: Lori Jean Grace, S. Jay Jackson
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check; Henry will recognize me. That won’t work.
Pull in close to the table where he’s sitting, but out just a bit to block the view from someone coming up the street.
Michelle played the scene in her mind, counting the seconds for each action. She calculated less than a minute, starting from the moment she pulled in, to when she pulled out.
Take the chance now, or wait for another time?
Michelle pulled into the parking lot, then walked around the back of her car, putting herself directly in Jerome’s path. She wanted him to see her coming well before she reached him. She wanted him arrogant, thinking he had nothing to be concerned about with a woman approaching.
She sat down next to him on the bench by the picnic table. He slowly looked over at her, making a big show of taking a drink from his beer . . . and when he realized a silenced .380 was pushed up against his dick, his eyes almost popped out.
“Muthafucka, if it was up to me, you’d be dead right now,” Michelle said. “Deja’s my friend and she said not to kill you. I wanted to at least shoot your dick off. She asked me not to. You get a pass, but this is me telling you: I’ll fuck you up forever if you mess with her again.”
“You’re nothing but a stupid bitch,” Jerome said. “You don’t got the balls to shoot no one.”
Michelle shook her head. “I can see the fear in your eyes; hear the squeal in your voice. You’re trying to play it off like you’re all that, but you don’t have the heart; deep inside you’re a chickenshit coward.”
Outwardly, she appeared calm. Inside, she capped and controlled her rage. Right now, in the moment, she maintained a calculated coolness. From past experience, she knew tomorrow would be full of emotional swings—from the heat of anger to the acidic depths of depression. That was tomorrow. Today, she had a job to do.
She calmly stared him right in the eye and eased the barrel up his stomach and across his chest to his left side a little below his armpit. Without breaking eye contact, she pulled the gun back about a foot. His breath released and his eyes flicked down to the gun. Up so close, she didn’t need to aim or even look; peripheral vision was good enough.
She fired once— Puhffiitt!— and the slug creased his side; more frightening than dangerous.
Jerome screamed, eyes flying open, he flinched back, pushing against the table. He started to get up, but Michelle jerked the gun up to meet him, the end of the barrel stopping a few inches from his face.
“Sit down.”
Jerome sat.
Out of the corner of her eye, Michelle saw a kid coming on a bike. She crossed her legs like a man, with her ankle on her knee and hid the .380, still pointing it at Jerome, from under her calf. “Say anything, look at anything, make any kind of a move, I’ll empty the clip in you.”
Michelle held Jerome’s gaze while the kid coasted on his bike up to the front door, hopped off, and leaned the bike against the wall. Jerome froze, sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip. He held the wound with his right hand, and his eyes, now bloodshot, watered.
For the few seconds it took the kid to park his bike and disappear through the front door, time stood still. Michelle’s stare never wavered. After the door closed completely, she put her foot down.
“Because of what’s happened here, you might think I’m cold-blooded. I’m not. I’m practiced, patient, and professional. Touch a single fucking hair on Deja ever again and I’ll take you apart piece by piece. God’s truth, asshole. I’d enjoy that.”
Jerome nodded.
“Sit still.”
Jerome nodded again.
Michelle scooted back, stood, hid the .380 under her crossed arms and back-stepped to end of her car. She lifted her arm slightly to show Jerome her gun. “Don’t forget: not a hair.”
A moment later, she backed out of Henry’s parking lot in search of takeout for lunch.
Fourteen: Strange Skills
M ICHELLE FOLLOWED NIKKY’S gaze checking out
Pull in close to the table where he’s sitting, but out just a bit to block the view from someone coming up the street.
Michelle played the scene in her mind, counting the seconds for each action. She calculated less than a minute, starting from the moment she pulled in, to when she pulled out.
Take the chance now, or wait for another time?
Michelle pulled into the parking lot, then walked around the back of her car, putting herself directly in Jerome’s path. She wanted him to see her coming well before she reached him. She wanted him arrogant, thinking he had nothing to be concerned about with a woman approaching.
She sat down next to him on the bench by the picnic table. He slowly looked over at her, making a big show of taking a drink from his beer . . . and when he realized a silenced .380 was pushed up against his dick, his eyes almost popped out.
“Muthafucka, if it was up to me, you’d be dead right now,” Michelle said. “Deja’s my friend and she said not to kill you. I wanted to at least shoot your dick off. She asked me not to. You get a pass, but this is me telling you: I’ll fuck you up forever if you mess with her again.”
“You’re nothing but a stupid bitch,” Jerome said. “You don’t got the balls to shoot no one.”
Michelle shook her head. “I can see the fear in your eyes; hear the squeal in your voice. You’re trying to play it off like you’re all that, but you don’t have the heart; deep inside you’re a chickenshit coward.”
Outwardly, she appeared calm. Inside, she capped and controlled her rage. Right now, in the moment, she maintained a calculated coolness. From past experience, she knew tomorrow would be full of emotional swings—from the heat of anger to the acidic depths of depression. That was tomorrow. Today, she had a job to do.
She calmly stared him right in the eye and eased the barrel up his stomach and across his chest to his left side a little below his armpit. Without breaking eye contact, she pulled the gun back about a foot. His breath released and his eyes flicked down to the gun. Up so close, she didn’t need to aim or even look; peripheral vision was good enough.
She fired once— Puhffiitt!— and the slug creased his side; more frightening than dangerous.
Jerome screamed, eyes flying open, he flinched back, pushing against the table. He started to get up, but Michelle jerked the gun up to meet him, the end of the barrel stopping a few inches from his face.
“Sit down.”
Jerome sat.
Out of the corner of her eye, Michelle saw a kid coming on a bike. She crossed her legs like a man, with her ankle on her knee and hid the .380, still pointing it at Jerome, from under her calf. “Say anything, look at anything, make any kind of a move, I’ll empty the clip in you.”
Michelle held Jerome’s gaze while the kid coasted on his bike up to the front door, hopped off, and leaned the bike against the wall. Jerome froze, sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip. He held the wound with his right hand, and his eyes, now bloodshot, watered.
For the few seconds it took the kid to park his bike and disappear through the front door, time stood still. Michelle’s stare never wavered. After the door closed completely, she put her foot down.
“Because of what’s happened here, you might think I’m cold-blooded. I’m not. I’m practiced, patient, and professional. Touch a single fucking hair on Deja ever again and I’ll take you apart piece by piece. God’s truth, asshole. I’d enjoy that.”
Jerome nodded.
“Sit still.”
Jerome nodded again.
Michelle scooted back, stood, hid the .380 under her crossed arms and back-stepped to end of her car. She lifted her arm slightly to show Jerome her gun. “Don’t forget: not a hair.”
A moment later, she backed out of Henry’s parking lot in search of takeout for lunch.
Fourteen: Strange Skills
M ICHELLE FOLLOWED NIKKY’S gaze checking out
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