Another blast rocks the bathroom and I scream like a coward, like a crybaby.
“Listen carefully,” he says, “men are about to come through that broken window. I will shoot until I’m out of bullets. But if it looks like they’re gonna throw an explosive, like a grenade, I will shout and ya will sink down as low as ya can and cover yourself completely. This is a good, heavy-weight iron tub. It can repel a hell of a lot of shrapnel. I’ll be using the tank on them first, if I can.”
“Okay, but you be ready to jump in here with me, right?” It’s going to hurt so much to have this enormous Scotsman land on me but he can’t stay out there.
“Aye, ma’am.”
Liar. He’d rather stand there and get blown up than get in the tub with his boss’s prisoner. My fever’s peaking again because why not have an overheated, sweaty body when you’re about to die?
Oh, god. I don’t want to die. I want to see Nate again… My skin may be blazing but the sweat on my face and running down my back is cold, and I start shivering under my pile of blankets. I’m so useless right now and I want to scream. I should be helpingdefend us, instead I’m huddled in this tub and I can’t make myself move.
Where is Ethan? I’m sure he’s on the roof, likely firing off an AK-47 in each fist.
What if he’s dead?
I hate his guts.
He kidnapped me.
He saved my life.
And he’s all I have.
Another explosion hits hard enough to drop some of the heavy marble tiles in the shower, shattering on the floor. Patrick has the oxygen tank wedged between his feet, his gun up and when the first man crashes through what’s left of the window, he shoots him in the head.
“Get ready to slide down and cover your head,” Patrick shouts over his shoulder, still firing. His bullet hits the next bad guy in the chest; the man stumbles back, but still raises his gun.
“He’s got a bulletproof vest! He’s not down” I screech. Patrick nods, shoots the man he’s aiming at, and then swings back to the bulletproof vest guy.
The tub shakes and skids back a bit on its claw feet. Is it another explosion? My knee brushes against something sharp and I realize bulletproof vest guy’s bullet hit the tub, making the inside bulge a bit, sending shards of porcelain loose.
My ears are ringing from the gunfire and the smoke is making me gasp and cough. I put a blanket over my face, trying to smother the noise. Patrick can’t look back at me, he needs to concentrate.
Jesus Christ, how many men are there? Three men are dead on the floor, two more are rappelling through the shattered window and I can’t seem to process it. They just keep coming and coming and…
Another bullet hits the carved wood frame by Patrick’s head and I try to hold back a scream/cough. He releases the empty clip from his gun and jams in a new one.
“Enough bullets,” I whisper, rocking back and forth, half insane, “he says we have enough.”
The thing that ends this nightmare of guns, smoke and screaming is the oxygen tank and the luckiest shot ever.
Patrick kicks the tank, spinning it so the cap that seals it is facing me. There’s a low grunt of pain and blood spurts from his side. He staggers backward, tightening his finger on the trigger and the shot goes wild, hitting the top of the tank at an angle and ripping off the seal. The force propels the tank out of the bathroom door as it becomes a missile, tearing through one guy's shoulder and nearly decapitating the next before soaring through the window and knocking the two men about to enter back out, their ropes swaying, smashing their now unconscious bodies against the brick, over and over.
Time slows down and speeds up so I don’t know when Ethan enters the bathroom, only that he’s hovering over me, covered in blood and his left hand still gripping an enormous knife. “Darlin’ you’re okay. You’re safe.” He kneels down and his gore-covered face is right next to mine. I can make out the tracks of blood running down his skin.
“Is that your blood?”
“Maybe 20%,” he says with a little deranged smile.
“Oh. Okay.” Then my poor fevered body decides it’s time to lose consciousness.
Chapter Twenty-Four
In which Ethan explains Mafia life: long stretches of acute boredom broken up by the occasional firefight.
Ethan…
“At least she didn’t boak up on ya,” Patrick says, always looking on the bright side, that one. He’s grabbed a towel, pushing it against the wound in his side.
