The gunfire ceases. The silence that crashes down is heavier, more oppressive than the noise. It’s the silence of reloads, of shared glances, of false confidence. They think they have me. They think I’m finished.
The silence is my cue. I’m up before the echo of the last shot has entirely faded, rising from behind the ruined desk like a specter. My gun is an extension of my will. I don’t aim with my eyes; I aim with the certainty in my gut.
The first man, a brute still fumbling with a fresh magazine, looks up. His eyes are wide, brown, and stupid.
I fire without hesitation.
The bullet takes him in the eye. There’s a wet, popping sound, distinctly organic and final.Ouch.He drops like a sack of stones.
My barrel swings, a seamless arc of death. The second man is faster, his gun coming up. My shot is a fraction of a second quicker, punching into his thigh. He screams, a high-pitched sound of agony, and stumbles, his own shot going wide and chewing a hole in the ceiling.
I can already taste his pain in the air, a metallic tang mixed with the coppery scent of his blood. I hurry and hit him once more so he doesn’t become a problem.
The third one, the one I didn’t hit, uses the distraction. He’s a bull of a man, charging low. I twist, my body anticipating the trajectory of a bullet that never comes. Instead, his shoulderslams into my midsection. The air explodes from my lungs in a pained grunt. The world tilts, spins, and the floor rushes up to meet my back. The impact is stunning, and I’m seeing stars.
Before I can draw a breath, he’s on me. A knee pins my gun arm, his weight immense. A calloused hand closes around my throat. The pressure is immediate and absolute.
“Who the fuck are you?” he snarls, his face inches from mine. His breath is foul.
“Being choked,” I rasp, the words scraping past the constriction, “isn’t really my thing.”
My free hand is already moving, crawling down my side, fingers searching for my blade. I’ve lost count of how many times it has saved me.
As my vision tunnels, a strange, seductive thought whispers through the strain. What would it be like? What if I just let go? Would Haven mourn for me?
My cock twitches at the thought, and if my throat weren’t constricted, I’d laugh.
I can’t die, not before I can tell her how I feel. She needs to know what she’s done. She’s taken a monster’s heart and carved her name in it. She needs to take responsibility.
My fingers grip the handle, a promise made of steel and resolve. In one motion, I unsheathe the blade and drive it upward, going for the throat. The angle is awkward, but the result is the same.
There’s a resistance, then a sickening, wet give. The man’s eyes, which were blazing with fury, go wide with shock. The pressure on my windpipe vanishes. A gurgle escapes his lips, a horrible, bubbling sound. A steady drip of blood mists my face, warm and salty. The coppery smell, once a distant welcome, is now an overwhelming flood.
He collapses onto me, his dead weight a final, crushing insult. More blood pours on me, soaking through my clothes,a hot, sticky baptism. I shove him off, rolling onto my side, coughing and drawing in ragged, glorious breaths.
The pain against my side radiates, and I open my jacket, scowling at the sight of my blood soaking through my shirt.
Shit. It’s just a graze, but I can’t believe I’ve been hit. Ruined my fucking cut.
Sighing, I stand, dust myself off, and take in my surroundings.
There’s a door that’s shut, beckoning me closer to it. Playing it safe, I open it from behind, just in case some coward is hoping to catch me off guard. When a blast doesn’t come immediately, I peek inside.
There’s a man tied to a chair bolted to the ground.
“Oh, thank God.” Entering the room, relief floods me as I see the same six numbers on his throat. Beneath the numbers, their mother’s name. “Here you are.”
He doesn’t move, hardly to my surprise. Probably unconscious or dead, if I have to guess.
“You’ve caused a lot of trouble for your sister, Paulie.” Kneeling down to look at him, I stare past the dried blood caked onto his skin and search for the spots where fresh blood leaks.
He’s got a slash against his throat that looks clotted. His nose isn’t looking too pretty, crooked from a few hits. Two swollen eyes and a busted lip. Bet he’s missing a tooth or two, too.
“She’s going to cry when she sees you.” Clicking my tongue, I reach to check his pulse to see if he’s still breathing. Right before I touch him, I’m delightfully surprised when he jerks, somehow having the strength to try to bite me.
Bastard still has some fight in him. No wonder he’s taken so many hits. Probably pissed off the bodies lying behind me.
“I think Haven might want these.” Curling my fingers before he can take them, I step back and watch as he struggles against his bindings.
