iBreak Free
The classic black Mustang screeched to a stop in the driveway of the Marx home. In the five minutes it took her to drive from the Puckett residence to her own, Shelby Marx had died – figuratively speaking – only to be reborn. The carefree young mother had ceased to be. All that was left – for the moment, anyway – was The Terminator.
Shelby's front door was yawning open. It took an awful lot of persistence – or a really good crowbar – to get past a deadbolt. Either way, the question was academic. This was what she had insurance for. The alarm company had, of course, dispatched Seattle's finest. Shelby knew they were en route, but she also knew that, as the homeowner, she was perfectly within her rights to defend herself, her loved ones, and her property. She walked in to the house, fuming.
"I know you're here, Dammit!"
Shelby simply heard her own footfalls on the hardwood. She knew that she was holding all the cards. The cops would be here in a few short minutes and all she needed to do was wait. She had the upper hand. Unlike most cases, she knew her quarry all too well. She was simply astounded at the sheer stupidity of it all. To go all 'Night Stalker' was one thing. To have the balls to screw with you – literally – in your own house was quite another. This was, really, no different than the game she played with her opponents before each and every fight. If you got inside your opponent's head, they got sloppy. If they got sloppy, they made mistakes. If they made mistakes, that was what gave you a tactical advantage. She decided to be snarky, smart-mouthed, and condescending. In short, Shelby decided to tear a page from the Sam Puckett playbook.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are!"
Shelby could hear police sirens in the distance. This would be easier than she'd expected. The sirens had clearly spooked whoever had defiled her home. All she could see was a tall, decidedly male shadow bearing down on her like a bat out of hell from the hallway that led to the bedroom she shared with her love. She switched into high gear. Shelby Marx the woman was gone. She was simply the fighter.
She was light on the balls of her feet. She reacted by simple muscle memory. Her body knew exactly what to do. Before she realized it had happened, her leg wheeled around, connecting with the man's skull. He went down instantly. For the second time in her life, she'd executed the move with precision.
The Seattle Police Department was now on-scene. Shelby's arms immediately shot skyward. They announced that they were responding to a break-in call. Wide beams from an industrial flashlight panned over the scene. Shelby spoke up, sounding firm, but not defiant. She wanted them to understand.
"This is my home! My partner and I… I…"
"Are you Shelby Marx?"
"Yessir… My wallet is in my back pocket…"
The cop acquiesced, allowing the tall brunette to reach for her rear jeans pocket. She produced a black leather wallet and flipped it open. The Washington driver's license clearly showed her to be Shelby J. Marx, who resided at this exact address, Mercer Island, Washington.
"I came right home when the alarm company called… my partner and I were visiting friends… She's there now…"
The cop waved her off. He was clearly more interested in the broken, bleeding mess that was now occupying Shelby and Wendy Marx's foyer.
From the moment that the bleeding man was yanked to his feet, Shelby's knees were weak. She imagined that this had to be what it felt like to get knocked out. She'd been knocked down before. She'd had her bell rung. She'd fought wars in the ring. She knew very well what a beating felt like, but this was a completely fresh type of Hell. She knew this man.
"You know this man, Miss Marx?"
Shelby could only nod in the affirmative. This man was her father.
AFTER THE PARAMEDICS HAD COME AND GONE…
Shelby stood on the front porch, rocking shakily, self-soothing. She simply couldn't believe that this man had been stupid enough – on a number of fronts – not to leave well enough alone. She had done everything that she had needed to do. She had no say whatsoever over his release. That had been a formality. He had done his time. His release was a foregone conclusion. Things would be different this time around, she told herself. This time, however, she wasn't a little girl. Shelby Marx was now a grown woman. The victim of her childhood had given way to the controlled rage of her youth, and she was now a fully grown, fully formed, articulate woman. She shared her life and her bed with the single, pure, unadulterated love of her life. They had a baby girl. She would not let Jack hurt her ever again. He would never speak to Wendy. If he ever set eyes on Megan, so help her God, the pretty little girl would be the last sight he would ever see. Shelby couldn't bring herself to apologize to that man, because that would mean that she would have to – even in her own mind – forgive him for what he'd done to her. What had killed Shelby Marx the girl and had given birth to Shelby Marx the fighter was inexcusable. She pulled out her phone and dialed.
Wendy answered immediately.
"It's safe… you and Meg can come home… I love you…"
Shelby hung up and immediately dialed Sam Puckett's cellular. There was only one thing left to do, and only Sam held the key. She had tried things Sam's way, but Jack Marx had tempted fate and lost. There was only one way now to settle the score.