His body went rigid, locked mid-motion. The gunman he was wrestling broke free, stumbling back, stunned by the suddenlack of resistance. Xavier stood there in the open, rain plastering his hair to his skull, the weapon hanging loose. He stared at something that wasn’t there.
“Xavier!” I screamed.
Nothing. A statue in the middle of a kill box.
The gunman recovered. Raised his rifle, aiming point-blank at Xavier’s ribs. A smile, cruel and professional, touched his lips. He had the shot. Couldn’t miss.
My pulse detonated.
“Move!” I shrieked, the sound tearing my throat raw. “Xavier, move!”
I scrambled forward, grabbing a rusty pipe from the debris, ready to throw it, run at him, do something stupid and fatal.
Xavier’s head snapped to the side. The scream pierced whatever veil he was behind.
Life crashed back into him.
Confusion first. A split second of where am I? Followed instantly by the predator reasserting control. He registered the rifle. The threat.
He dropped.
The bullet sailed through the space his ribs had occupied. Xavier didn’t fire back. He lunged upward, driving the heel of his palm into the man’s nose. Bone crunching into brain. Followed through with two rounds into the torso as the body fell.
“Car!” Havoc roared from somewhere firmly behind cover. “Now, you idiots!”
Xavier spun toward me. Pale. Shaken, panic flaring behind the lethal mask. He grabbed my arm, his grip almost painful, and hauled me into a run.
We sprinted. Lungs burning. Legs screaming. The icy rain turned every surface into an oil slick.
“Right!” Havoc took the lead now, firing behind us without looking.
We swerved around a corner. The black SUV, fifty yards ahead. Salvation.
“Go! Go!” Havoc provided covering fire, walking backward toward the vehicle.
We ran. The ground was ice disguised as asphalt. I slipped, my knee hitting the ground hard. Pain flared, hot and sharp.
Xavier didn’t stop. Scooped me up. Literally lifted me off the ground with one arm, his left, the strong one, while keeping his weapon trained behind us. Kept running. He slammed into the side of the SUV, yanked the back door open, and essentially threw me inside.
I scrambled across the leather seats, gasping for air. Xavier dove in after me. Havoc vaulted into the driver’s seat, and before the door was even closed, he stomped on the gas.
The SUV fishtailed violently on the ice, tires screaming for purchase, before catching traction and surging forward. Bullets slammed into the rear windshield, starring the reinforced glass but not penetrating.
We sped out of the complex, weaving through the shipping containers, putting distance between us and the kill team.
In the back seat, the silence was deafening.
I pressed myself against the door. Adrenaline had turned my blood to acid. My knee throbbed. I was soaked to the bone, shivering violently.
Xavier sat next to me, rigid. He still held the weapon Havoc had thrown him, his knuckles white. Water dripped from his nose, his chin.
Slowly, carefully, he turned his head to look at me.
The green was vivid in the passing streetlights, but the pupil dilation was uneven. One blown wide, one pinprick. Concussion symptom? Or something else?
“You froze.” The accusation hung in the air, heavy and terrified. “Xavier, you completely checked out.”
He stared at me, breathing rapid and uneven. He opened his mouth, throat working visibly, jaw muscles bunching and flexing as he tried to force words past the familiar block that sealed him silent. Nothing emerged, but a frustrated exhale that sounded more like a wounded animal than a man.
