“Get the fuck down,” Teague ordered even as he dropped his bag and reached for the gun holstered at the back of his waist. Thankfully, as far as he was concerned, Hoyt didn’t argue as he sank to one knee then rolled into the deep shadows of the building they were passing.
Teague, gun in hand now, turned slowly, trying to find the source of the shot. He spotted something moving in a doorway across the street and homed in on it. Before he could fire, he saw Jake come out of the dark, sprinting toward his target. There was a shout of surprise, then Jake dragged Frye into view and wrestled a pistol from his hand before knocking Frye out with a hard punch to his jaw.
Hoyt was on his feet seconds later, following as Teague dashed across the street. Jake was kneeling beside Frye, handcuffing his hands behind his back while Teague called 911. Teague explained to the dispatcher who he was and what had gone down, nodded, and hung up. “They’re sending a squad car to pick him up.”