His chest is a freight train under this tuxedo jacket. My heart picks up its pace, but I wrench us sideways, away from the crowd.
“Think, Dre, damn it,”Jasper signs
Before he can say anything, a hiss of air and a trickle of thick smoke billows out from the vents above. Eventually, the entire room is covered in a layer of it until the entire ballroom goes dark. Emergency red lights snap on overhead.
Phones flare to life—dozens of little white flashes as guests try to find each other in the darkness.
Panic blossoms instantly.
Women scream and silverware clatters as people bolt for the exits.
Through the smoke, I can see Chase gripping Mara’s upper arm as he tries to yank her toward the back stairwell. Her free hand claws at him, and I’m across the room in two strides.
Light from an emergency bulb behind me silhouettes Dredyn and Jasper peeling off in hot pursuit, like hunters splitting up to surround prey. Jasper’s already gone, a phantom heading for the stairs with Mara. Dredyn lets out a single, monstrous growl and charges a cluster of Syndicate guards rushing from the east wing door.
A table crashes, glasses shatter. Guests scream and scatter as he plows through the chaos like a wrecking ball.
The Syndicate guards try to intercept him.Good fucking luck, idiots.
That leaves me with the rest. Five guards block my path. Thick men in black suits with the soulless skin of their masks reflecting the flaring lights.
The nearest one hurls a punch, metal hitting flesh in an instant. I duck, smelling smoke and adrenaline, feeling my pulse hammer. My arm flips out and I catch his wrist in a red haze, twisting it until it snaps in a low crack against the floor—spine and bone.
He howls.
There’s a venomous satisfaction in hearing it, but no time to relish the sound. I hook his elbow, yanking hard.
He somersaults forward over my boot and slams down headfirst onto polished marble, out cold before he even hits the ground.
One down. Four to go.
Another brute swings at me with a baton.
I don’t even flinch.
In the dim red light, I see his mask’s fake smile blush with grime. I parry with the side of my forearm, then pivot my hips out and drop my weight. The baton slips from his glove andskitters across the floor. I kick it away and drive my knee into his chest, right below the sternum.
His legs buckle, laughter choked off. I reach down, hook my fingers in the strap of his mask, and peel it off. He’s too low to run now, so I grab his hair and lift his head, watching smoke curl out of his open mouth. My other hand comes up in a fist and rains down until his neck is a broken thing that doesn’t even scream.
I could make a religion out of watching these bastards fall apart.
Then a third man is on me, his gloved hands on my collar. His mask is too smooth, the chin too sharp, panic already beginning to cloud his eyes as he realizes he hasn’t hit anything solid.
Nice try, buddy. I’m all reflexes.
My arm snakes out and he catches a shot square in the jaw. He stumbles; I whirl and lock the back of his neck in my hands—a flick of the spine. I twist so fast it’s almost a blur, and he’s snatched off his feet and flung into a table behind me.
Breathing hard, throat tight, I sense through the haze that more are coming. Two guards flank me now, fists raised. I dodge left, and jab with my right, not to hit him, but to break the grip on my shoulder. It works.
My fist cracks into his forearm instead. He reels back, one hand useless. I step inside his guard, palm flat to jaw, and feel the joint crack under my touch.
He slumps, and the other guard thinks he can reverse the grip I just broke. He’s wrong. I drop, duck under his swing, and spring back up, grabbing his sweat-damp mask and jerking it. I twist his arm behind his back and lean all my weight into his wrist. It twists until something gives; the arm goes limp at his side. A simple twist and I’m greeted with the noise of misaligned sinews and splintering bones.
And they all fall the fuck down.
With my well-deserved break, I inhale the acrid stench of smoke as it curls through the open ballroom doors behind me, swirling around the cluster of splintered chairs and terrified wretches fleeing past. My hands are slick, dripping with someone’s blood. Across the room, Jasper’s form goes through the door that Chase was pulling Mara toward.
Looking down, I notice a pistol sitting in a holster from one of the guards that’s down for the count. I grab it and tuck it in my waistband. I won’t need it—my hands are more effective for the time being. No need to kill anybody… for now.
