LOCK
The locked front door gives the first time I slam into it with my shoulder, pushing inwards with such force that the handle dents the wall.
I slam it closed behind me, giving the man in the kitchen ample warning I’m on my way. The three strides to the room stutter past like strobe lighting, then I’m in the kitchen, arms loose, ready to fight.
“Please,” I hear George beg before I see her. She’s curled around her father, both cowering behind a kitset chair. Her face is twisted with pain.
There’s so much blood I can’t tell how badly hurt she is.
There’s so much blood, my anger boils up and spills over in a roar of outrage.
I rush at Adnan, fisting my hands in his shirt to drive him backwards, pushing until he’s bent over the sink, his eyes wide. He stares at me the way George must have stared at him while he beat the shit out of her and her dad.
The bat comes loose from his hand, the distant snap of fingers telling me why he’s giving it up so easily. He’s lucky. I made it perfectly clear there was one target in the household and George wasn’t it. If I didn’t have to follow through with the rest of the charade, this bat would pulverise his skull, smashing it until there was nothing left but loose shards of blood-and-brain-coated bone.
Instead, I ram the end of onto the bench, landing with force right next to his ear, making him scream.
“Lachlan!”
At her cry, I release my grip, taking a step backward, skidding in the blood. That snaps my attention back to George. She’shuddled so far over her father I can’t get a good look at either of them.
I knock the chair aside, crouching beside her. Dropping the bat so I can cradle her face in my hands.
“Are you okay?”
She nods even though her mouth is twisted with pain. “It’s my d-dad. He’s not—”
I see the end of the sentence for myself. He’s not conscious. If it weren’t for the bubble of blood blowing out of his nostril, I would have thought him dead.
“Come on.”
I try to raise her, pry her away from him. She clings on. Crying. Rocking his unresponsive body back and forth.
“Hey, man. You can’t just come in here and—”
I spring to my feet, grabbing the bat and poking the end into his chest so it rests on the hollow under his throat. He knocks it away, the action contorting his features into a rictus of pain. His broken fingers stick out at odd angles. I wish the rest of his bones did the same.
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” I growl, easing back half a step as I try to monitor George at the same time as keeping tabs on the assailant. “You know who I am?”
He nods, appearing confused, and I slam the bat hard against the bench next to him. To make him jump. To make him squeal in surprise like the little rat he is. “If you get the fuck out of here now, I’ll let you live.”
“And what about my payment?”
I stalk towards him, switching the bat to my left hand so I can flick the blade of my knife out with my right. “Did you misunderstand me?”
His mouth twists, tongue flicking out to lickhis lips as he glares at me, taking in my stance and weighing up his chances. Unarmed. Already in pain.
A second later, he skitters past me, running for the front door, his performance over.
I drop the bat and tuck the knife blade away as I turn back to George, scanning her face. It’s contorted with fear. Not for herself but for her father.
We need to go. I grip her shoulder to help her stand and she winces, giving a little cry.
“How badly did he hurt you?” My voice is granite, menacing, the opposite of what she needs, and I swallow hard, trying to fight past the flood of rage reddening my vision.
“It’s just a bruise.”
She shuffles away when I try to see more, jolting her father whose eyes pop open. “Where…?”
