And Cameron?
Cameron closed in, aimed higher.
“No!” I shrieked, throwing myself over the counter and tackling him to the ground.
I heard the gun fall and slide, hopefully out of reach.
That was fine.
I didn’t need a gun.
My aunts had busted their asses to teach me that my own body was a weapon.
I found that when I was fueled with terror—not for myself, but for someone I loved—I was ready to be a lethal one.
I scrambled on top of Cameron in a mounting position, all my weight pressed to his chest, my legs pinning his arms to his sides.
Normally, this was when my aunts would tell me to go for soft targets: eyes, nose, ears. Or, if I had the strength advantage, to close my hands around his throat and squeeze, squeeze,squeeze.
But I was seeing red.
Red blood.
Soaking through Perish’s shirt.
Draining out of his body.
I didn’t go for soft targets.
I went for the hardest one around.
I grabbed the sides of Cameron’s head, yanked up, then slammed down.
Down.
Down.
The sick crack of his skull against the cement was drowned out only by a deep, feral scream.
I didn’t know where it was coming from.
Not until hands seized me, yanking me backward.
“We got it, baby, we got it,” my father told me as the sound died. The ache in my throat said it had been coming from me all along.
I saw movement as men swarmed in beside us as my father kept pulling me back.
“No!” I shrieked, yanking against his hold. “No! Let me go! Let me the fuck go!”
It was probably the uncharacteristic curse that had my father releasing me.
I flew forward toward Perish’s body, all the first aid training classes coming back to me without thought. I shoved my hands hard against the areas where the blood was most accumulated.
Perish hissed, but that was good. It meant he was conscious. It meant we could save him.
“I’m okay,” he assured me. But, God, I’d never heard his voice so weak.
“You’re shot,” I said, sniffling hard. It was only that sound that made me realize I was crying. Tears flooded down my cheeks, slid off my chin.
