He wheezes, but I don’t stop. I don’t think. I just hit.
All the fear I live with pours into rage as I hammer him with my fists.
I drive him backward into the wall. He tries to claw at my jacket to stop me, but now that I have him where I want him, I’m functioning on pure adrenaline.
I slam his head against the concrete.
Once.
Twice.
Blood pours from the back of his head.
“Killing me won’t stop it,” he rasps, voice rough with amusement.
I snarl, shoving my forearm against his throat. “Who runs the network?”
His eyes glitter. “You think I’d tell you?”
“Tell me,” I bite out, shoving harder.
He laughs. Actually, fucking laughs. Rage flashes so hot behind my eyes that my vision goes blurry.
I pull back my fist.
But a shot rings out again.
The hitman’s head snaps to the side, his body going slack.
For one stunned second, I just stare at him.
Then I turn and see Rafe with a gun in his hand, and the other hand pressed hard to his bleeding side.
His face is pale now. “Couldn’t let him live,” he manages, then his body slumps forward.
I’m at him in two strides, grabbing him from the ground.
“Stay with me,” I order, but my voice cracks as I haul him upright.
Rafe’s breath shakes. “Don’t . . . don’t do that.”
“Do what?” I snap, dragging him toward the car.
“Sound . . . scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
Lies. I am. I don’t know how I’ll do this alone.
Rafe coughs, blood speckling his lips. “That’s . . . the stupidest lie you’ve ever told.”
“Quit talking. I need to stop the bleeding.” My fingers rip his jacket open.
Blood. So much blood. My stomach roils from the sight.
I press my palm to the wound, hard.
Rafe hisses, grabbing my wrist. “Fuc-fucking shit—you trying to kill me?” He coughs, blood bubbling up out of his mouth.
