His voice isn’t as quiet as it should be, but I’m beginning to see we’re not getting out of here without a fight.
There’s two of us and what? Four left of them?
Fuck it. Let’s kill some Nazis.
As soon as I nod, Fallow’s grin widens, and he looks about as happy as I’ve ever seen him.
Chapter Seventeen
Colm
This stealthy shit is definitely more Fallow’s strength than mine, so I’m content to let him lead the way. Plus, he looks blissed the fuck out.
I watch him get into a low crouch, and immediately I’m reminded of how slick and cat-like he was the first day we met. It’s becoming clear to me that even if I live a long, full life, I’ll never meet someone as beautiful as this murderous sex pest. It makes me want to keep him close. But it’s also clear that he’s not the kind of person you can contain, and whenever he gets bored of me, he’s going to leave.
I’ll have to savor it while I can. This is the foremost thought in my head as I walk behind him, keeping enough distance not to blow our cover.
We’re almost at the exit by the time we catch up to them. They have noticed that their buddy is missing, but thank fuck we’re being tracked by the stupidest criminals in the history of organized crime, because these motherfuckers are acting like they’re in a buddy comedy, not a horror movie.
Fallow will quickly show them that was a mistake. One of the remaining five Aryans comes wandering back down the path to look for the missing member of the pack, calling out “Abe!” like he’s sure the guy just got lost.
He doesn’t even see Fallow before his throat is slit. God damn, Fallow loves to slit throats. He also loves to hold a knife to mine while we fuck, but somehow the real-life danger of it only makes it sexier. The man is left gasping, reaching for his ruined throat, and Fallow gives him a shove to help him to the ground.
His body is still twitching when I step over it to keep on the others. Good.
The remaining four are clustered near the gate when we catch up to them. There’s more open space here, and they’ll have a line of sight on us when we approach. Fallow seems totally undeterred, but I snag his sleeve—I guess I already got used to having touching privileges, although he still might kill me for it one day—and pull him back before he reveals himself.
“Wait,” I whisper. “At least let me cover you.”
He rolls his eyes and makes a big show of blowing his hair out of the way, like I’m being a drag. But I have to at least try to keep him safe.
I position myself behind the closest corner to our targets, pull my gun, and wait until Fallow is ready. I’m about to give a signal when he decides to do it himself, by reaching out and pinching my side. It’s so unexpected, I’m a few seconds behind him and he’s already well and truly exposed before I start firing.
He’s such a little shit sometimes. He’s lucky I’m a decent shot. I only have one magazine, though. Fifteen bullets. Could be worse, but I’m still not crazy about the odds.
It’s not like I have a choice. Fallow covers the ground between me and the Aryans like he fucking teleported, so at least he caught them off-guard. He gets his knife in one of their necks before any of them has pulled a gun. It takes me six shots to gettwo of them to the ground in a way that convinces me they’re truly down, but that leaves one lone loser to grapple with Fallow.
I don’t fucking like this. The guy is obviously not as experienced in hand to hand, but somehow Fallow’s knife got knocked to the ground and he’s facing off with someone who has half a foot and at least fifty pounds on him. I’m taking aim when the man makes the mistake of grabbing for Fallow instead of punching him, and my little psychopath loses his cool.
I feel like I’m watching something on TV as Fallow slides behind the man and climbs his back, ending up with his deceptively muscular legs around the guy’s waist and his arm around his throat. He uses one arm to lock the other one in place, with his forearm pressing hard against the man’s trachea and desperate noises already pouring out of his mouth.
I’m standing in the open now, holding aim on them, but I’m not convinced I have a truly clear shot that doesn’t risk Fallow. I hesitate, praying that Fallow has the strength to choke this meathead out.
I shouldn’t have been concerned. The Aryan scrabbles at Fallow’s forearms, leaving deep red marks with his nails. He tries throwing himself backward into the fence to knock Fallow off, but it’s a chain-link fence and has too much give. And Fallow, for all his quirks, has a ferocity in moments like this that I’ve never seen on anyone else.
The man makes a final wet moan before finally falling to his knees. Fallow gives another crushing flex of his bicep and then lets go. The second he’s clear, I put two bullets in the man’s chest and one in his head, because I’m not taking any fucking risks.
“What the fuck did you do that for?” Fallow is panting with exertion but still manages to look indignant when he gestures at the corpse. “I wanted to watch him die.”
Jesus.
“I think we have more important things to do. Like cleaning this up and getting the fuck out of here before anyone else shows up. Oh, and getting that goddamn tracker off our car.”
“You may have a point,” he says, pointing at me with a loose finger and bending over to take some more deep breaths.
“You alright?”
It’s difficult not to close the distance between us and inspect him for injuries, but I’m trying not to overstep more than I have to today.
