“They’re coming, Joaquin! Go!” a man shouted.
“Fuck.” I ran the rest of the way, and Cillian was at my heels. We nearly got to the top of the building when Joaquin came sprinting down the staircase. He didn’t stop, even when he saw us, and immediately he shoved Cillian, who had attempted to pass me and block him. Cillian lost his balance and fell backward, and while I tried to reach for him, it was too late. He began to stumble and fell down the steps to the next landing.
As much as my heart demanded I check on Cillian, I focused on Joaquin and the self-assured smirk he gave me as he raised his hands, ready for a fight.
Motherfucker.Did he not have a gun or did he prefer getting down and dirty with fists? I was not above cheating, though, because I wanted this done so I could check on Cillian and go home. I shoved my hand into my suit jacket and pulled out a knife, then flipped the blade out of the sheath and pointed it at him.
“We’re done today, Joaquin. We’re fucking done. I have better shit to do.”
His mouth twisted and it went from smug to dangerous. “We’re not done until I say we are, and I’m going to get revenge for Noa.”
I snorted. “The dead one?” I knew who she was, of course, but infuriating him would make him more susceptible to mistakes.
He clenched his jaw and swiped a hand over his forehead, taking sweat with it. Tension grew thick between us. The air seemed stifling, making it hard to breathe. This man was a worthy opponent, someone who’d met each attack with an attack so far.
“You’ll pay for that,” he hissed. “Hijo de puta.”
I grinned. “We’ll see.”
He made to step forward, but Cillian groaned. The quick moment it took to look over my shoulder and check on him allowed Joaquin to punch me in the jaw, knocking me off balance. I nearly tripped down the stairs and managed to save myself, but not before he’d snatched the knife out of my hand and shoved it into my left shoulder. I grunted, gnashing my teeth together to stop from yelling out in pain because I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. The attack gave him enough time to shove me, knocking me against the wall, and jump past me. I tried to grab his shoulder, but I missed and excruciating pain pounded through my upper body.
Cillian was twitching, finally moving after being knocked for a loop with a hit to his head on the way down. He reached out and grasped Joaquin’s ankle as the bastard ran past him, and Joaquin fell forward, tumbling face-first down the rest of the steps.
I jumped down the few steps to land on the same platform as Cillian and yanked the knife from my shoulder, grunting in agony as the pain speared through me like hot bolts of lightning. Moving to grab Joaquin, I growled when I found him already on his feet, not as hurt as Cillian, and rushing toward the exit. I tried to chase him, but with a shoulder out of action and him way ahead, there was no way for me to catch up. When I got to the door of the apartment building, he was gone, nothing more than a ghost in the suspiciously quiet neighborhood.
“Fuck.” I turned and went back up the stairs.
When I came to Cillian, he was sitting with his shoulders against the wall, hand pressed to the back of his head and bowed forward. I kneeled beside him and clenched my fist against my stomach to try to numb the ache that throbbed through me.
“Where is he?” Cillian murmured, groaning as he scrunched his eyes shut.
“Gone. The fucker escaped.” I rested my back on the wall beside him. My knife clattered on the cold wood when I let go of it. I laughed at the ridiculousness of everything. We’d never fucked up as badly as we had in Miami. We were professionals at this type of shit, but Joaquin had given us a challenge and we weren’t winning. “Sloan’s going to skin us alive.”
“Aye.” Cillian slid against the wall until he was bent to the side, his head resting on my shoulder. “Feck, me head’s spinnin’. Joaquin’s a fecking motherfecker.” His gaze darted to me and rose to my shoulder, and the familiar anger returned to his face when he spotted the wet patch and cut in my suit. “He get ye?”
“Yeah.” I let my head fall back and sighed.
He leaned over and touched my shoulder, and I hissed between my teeth when he tugged at the suit jacket. I shifted forward, and together, we got it off. He unbuttoned my shirt next, then shoved the material off my shoulder so he could get a good look. “Feck. That’s gonna need stitches.”
I made a noise. “We got a doc. We’ll call him when we get back to the safe house.”
There was another slam of the door upstairs and the thump of feet had me tensing to the point my injury throbbed more intensely. Cillian pulled out his gun, but when Jamie appeared at the top of the staircase, I relaxed, and Cillian shoved his gun back in his holster.
“Did he get away?” Jamie rushed down the steps and kneeled in front of us.
“Aye. Fecker shoved me down the stairs and knocked me out. Aspen got stabbed.” Cillian’s words radiated disappointment and anger, and I could already see the self-blame echoing in his mind, playing on his thoughts like a poison spreading lies. “We fecked up.”
“He got one over on us,” I barked, surprising Cillian into widening his eyes. “He’s fucking good at what he does and that whore betrayed us.” I switched my gaze to Jamie. “I heard him yell to warn Joaquin.”
Jamie held out his hand to Cillian, who took it and rose to his feet. Cillian helped me up, and I nodded in a quick, awkward thanks as I bent and grabbed the knife I’d dropped. I didn’t put it away, rather kept it tightly held in my fist.
“Aye, we know.” Jamie glared up the stairs. “We’ve got him tied up. The wee fucker got cold feet.”
“Then let’s fecking sort him out.” Cillian shoved past Jamie and wobbled when he went to take the first step. I reached out to steady him, but he raised his palm in my direction before I could touch him. I retreated as he recovered and stormed up the stairs. Jamie and I had no choice but to follow.
Cillian was on a mission and no one was going to stop him. I felt bad for the whore, but at the same time, I didn’t. Traitors, no matter who they were, got what was coming to them, and it was because of this guy that we’d lost Joaquin—again.
Cillian shoved his way into the apartment, and Jamie and I followed. The whore was already sitting in a chair in the middle of a dull living room with nothing but a threadbare couch and an old TV. The carpet was shredded and exposed concrete. The paint on the walls was peeling. I couldn’t deny that the whore—who Corbin kept sitting with a hand on his shoulder—was beautiful, with short auburn hair and a light spray of freckles across delicate cheeks. He had a pointy chin, fair skin, and pouty lips. His chest was bare and his nipples peaked as the air conditioner buzzed loudly; although, I didn’t know how it was even working because it looked to be a hundred years old.
