Emory took off after Scot. He slammed through the double swing doors to the receiving area, where Scot was waiting for him. The shorter man faced him in a wrestler stance, crouched with both hands before him, one holding a stun gun.
Emory almost ran right into the gun, but at the last second, he grabbed the device and tried to wrestle it from Scot’s hand.
Scot pushed back hard and Emory landed on his back with Scot on top of him, struggling to force the stun gun to Emory’s neck.
Scot squeezed the trigger. Blue bolts of electricity twisted between the electrodes at the head of the device.
Emory clenched his free hand and sent it up to Scot’s chin, sending his glasses flying. He punched him three more times before he jarred him enough to weaken him. He pushed the gun back toward Scot’s face.
Scot moved more of his weight to his knees, using both hands to push the stun gun back toward his opponent.
Emory tried bucking him off, to no avail. He kicked his knee up until it slammed against Scot’s groin. As Scot fell over in pain, Emory grabbed the weapon, blasting a bolt of electricity into his face.
Scot fell to the floor, a red goose-egg welt rising from his left cheek. Nearly immobilized, he tried grabbing at the pain.
Emory stood and caught his breath. He kicked Scot in the balls a second time. “Asshole!” He dropped the stun gun to the ground and stomped on it, smashing it. “I hate these things!” Panting, he jerked around and kicked Scot in the balls once more. “That’s for my dad.”
Scot groaned in agony. This time he was able to reach the pain with his hands.
Satisfied with his handiwork, Emory reached for the handcuffs on his belt. “Oh crap.” He remembered that his cuffs were somewhere in the living room of his parents’ house – thrown there the night before.
He walked away from Scot in search of something to tie him with. He didn’t notice Scot’s glasses before stepping on them, nor did he see their owner working his way back up to his feet.
Jeff lost sight of Victor during his pursuit, but his threat to shoot Scot was a verbal breadcrumb to where he was heading. It reminded him that he had found a gun in Victor’s desk when he broke in a couple of days earlier. When he arrived at Victor’s office, he turned the knob and ran into the door, expecting it to open. He tried the doorknob again, leaving no doubt that it was locked. He pounded the thick wood with his fist. “Victor! Victor, open up!”
Jeff could hear movement inside the office and the sound of a turning knob – but not the one he was holding. “The other door.” He raced to the lobby and out the front entrance. He could see Victor walking from his office’s exterior door toward the parking lot. Without calling to him, Jeff ran and intercepted him at his luxury sedan.
“Give me the gun, Victor,” Jeff demanded, although no gun was visible.
Victor turned to Jeff. “What would you do if a man killed someone you loved?”
“Exactly what you’re planning to do, but Scot didn’t kill Britt.”
“You said whoever stole the water.”
“It was an assumption. I don’t know it for certain, and we won’t until we have a chance to talk to him. Victor, you know Britt didn’t have a choice about how her life ended, but you do. Don’t throw your life away on a hotheaded mistake.”
Victor hesitated. “Fine. I won’t.” He opened his car door and slipped into the driver seat. “Do your job,” he said before closing the door.
Jeff knocked on the window and waited for Victor to roll it down. “I was serious about the gun. I need it.”
“I’ve given you my word.”
“It’s not that. I trust you’re not going to shoot Scot,” Jeff said, although it wasn’t true.
“Then why do you want my gun?”
“Rick Roberts’ dog was shot to death, likely by whoever killed him.”
Victor let out an angry laugh. “You think I did that?”
“I’m not accusing you, but your gun is the same caliber as the bullet that was recovered, and you’re not the only one with access to your office.”
“Scot!” His eyes rolled up to Jeff. “How did you know about my gun?”
Jeff lied, “Agent Rome told me that you had a gun registered,” hoping he did have it registered.
“How did you know I kept it in my office?”
The success from his first lie emboldened Jeff to do it again. “You talked about shooting and ran to your office.”
The answer seemed to satisfy Victor, who pulled his gun from inside his suit jacket. Jeff produced a small knit scarf from his coat pocket and used it to take possession of the weapon.
Emory had been looking for a rope or something to bind Scot with for just over a minute when he passed a stack of full five-gallon water bottles that reached halfway to the ceiling. On the other side he spotted another forklift with arms facing him and some tools on a bench. Walking toward the tools, he noticed the rope keychain hanging from the forklift’s ignition. It’ll be close, but it might be long enough. He was reaching for the key when he was attacked from behind.
Scot wrapped his right arm around Emory’s neck and pushed his left forearm into the back of his neck, locking him in a sleeper hold. “I’m going to fucking kill you!” Scot screamed into his ear.
Startled, Emory grabbed at the forearm around his neck before he realized what was happening. His other hand tightened around the key, turning the ignition. As the forklift’s engine puttered on, Emory kicked at Scot’s shin. If he didn’t break free within a few seconds, he would pass out from the lack of blood flow to his brain. The kicking wasn’t working.
With one hand on Scot’s forearm, Emory reached a frantic and aimless hand before him. Grunting, he hit the forklift’s arm control, which made the arms of the forklift start to rise. Scot tried pulling him away, so Emory held the steering wheel and turned it. The forklift’s arms turned in their direction.
Emory was about to pass out.
The forklift’s arms reached eight feet high when they impacted the stack of five-gallon water bottles, piercing several of them and knocking others off the palettes. The water gushed from the bottles onto Scot and Emory like a spring waterfall, drenching them both.
As his feet slid on the floor, Scot lost his grip enough to give Emory a second wind.
Emory used his elbow to jab Scot’s left ribcage four times. He butted the back of his head into Scot’s forehead.
Twisting around, Emory hurled a fist at Scot’s injured cheek, knocking him back into the crumbling stack of water bottles. Emory slipped in the growing puddle, but he was back on his feet just before Scot. He grabbed the neck of one of the fallen five-gallon water bottles, still full, and swung it until it connected with Scot’s face.
Scot fell back, landing on a broken water bottle before coming to rest on the floor. He was out cold.
Emory noticed Scot’s running shoes. He removed the laces and tied them around the suspect’s wrists.