I don't think. I don't breathe. I run. I run to the right, skirting the edge of the burning helicopter. The heat sears my face. The smoke chokes me. I see the garage panel on the side of the house foundation. Twenty yards. Ten yards.
I see a shadow move in the trees ahead of me. A man. In white camouflage. Holding a submachine gun. He steps out, blocking my path. He raises his weapon.
I don't stop. I don't think about the rhythm. I don't think about the breath. I raise the SIG. I point it at the white shape.Press.
CRACK.CRACK.CRACK.
I fire three times. The man jerks. Red blooms on his white chest. He falls backward into the snow.
I don't look at his face. I reach the keypad. I punch in the code. The heavy blast doors groan and begin to open.
I look back. Alaric is pinned down behind a rock. He is reloading. "ALARIC!" I scream. "IT'S OPEN!"
He looks at me. He sees the open door. He sees the dead man in the snow. He nods. And then he runs toward me.
The bullets follow him. One of them hits him. I see his body jerk. I see a spray of red mist from his shoulder. He stumbles, but he doesn't fall. He throws himself through the closing gap of the garage door.
I hit the button. The door slams shut. The world goes dark. We are inside. We are alive.
But Alaric is on the floor. And the snow outside is stained with his blood. And mine. Because I just killed a man. And I didn't feel a thing.
CHAPTER 16
BLOOD ON THE LEATHER
POV: Elodie Fray
Location:The Underground Garage -> Highway 9 (The Mountain Pass)
Track:Nightcall– London Grammar (Dark Cover)
Sensory:The metallic tang of arterial spray, the smell of burning rubber on ice, the deafening roar of a V8 engine.
Mood:High-Velocity Panic & Lethal Focus.
The garage door slams shut with a finality that shakes the concrete floor, sealing us inside the dark belly of the earth.
For a second, the silence is absolute. No wind. No gunfire. Just the ragged, wet sound of Alaric’s breathing and the frantic drumming of my own heart against my ribs.
"Alaric!"
I drop to my knees beside him. He is slumped against the wheel well of a massive black vehicle—an SUV that looks more like atank than a car. His face is grey, drained of all color, illuminated only by the harsh strip lighting of the garage. His hand—the good one—is clamped over his left shoulder. Blood is pulsing between his fingers, dark and thick, pooling on the pristine epoxy floor.
"Get up," I plead, grabbing his jacket. "We have to go. They’ll breach the door."
"The door... is titanium reinforced," he rasps, his teeth gritted in a rictus of pain. "It will hold... for five minutes."
He tries to stand, but his legs give way. He slides back down, leaving a smear of crimson on the car's fender. "I can't drive," he admits. The confession hits me harder than the gunfire outside. Alaric Graves, the man who controls everything, has lost control of his own body.
"I’ll drive," I say. The words come out before I can think about them.
"It’s an armored G-Wagon," he coughs, spitting a speck of blood onto his chin. "It handles like... a battleship. Can you handle a battleship, Elodie?"
"I just killed a man, Alaric. I can drive a damn car."
Something sparks in his eyes. A flash of pride amidst the agony. "Keys," he groans. "Pocket."
I reach into his leather jacket. My hands are coated in his blood, making the leather slick. I find the fob. I unlock the doors. "Help me," he commands.
