He rolls off me and into a crouch, glass crunching underneath his feet. Gun in hand, he plasters himself to the wall and peers through the window.
Pop pop pop!
I duck my head and cover my face as more bullets fly, one sluicing into the plaster right behind me.
Holy shit.
My heart threatens to pound straight out of my chest. What do I do? I’m not a fighter. I’m an observer.
I need to calm myself andthink. There are enemies with weapons downstairs, and a guy is crouched outside our window. The exit is to the right, but I can’t move.
I’m a liability because I can’t even run to protect myself.
Self-loathing seeps through the fear, souring my stomach.
What would Finn do? My father?
Is this how Angelica felt?
“In here!”
The gruff voice of an unknown adversary reaches my ears milliseconds before the foreman’s office door explodes open. Armed men in mercenary fatigues flood the room.
Panic bleats through me as my kidnapper surges forward and fires.
The first two men who stormed through the door go down a few feet away from us, their bodiesthumpingto the floor. At the sight of blood and brains trickling from the holes in their heads, bile burns the back of my throat.
Pounding footsteps follow. Men shout in a rough language I don’t recognize.
My kidnapper doesn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by the bedlam unfolding around us or our horrible fighting odds.
He moves as fluidly as water, unstoppable as he tosses a man over his shoulder. Then he grabs a second attacker’s arm and spins him toward his friends.
Amid all the chaos, he’s a beacon of serenity. Witnessing the way he cuts down these adversaries eases the stranglehold that fear has on my body. I hate to admit this, but the guy’s an artist. Watching him fight is like watching a creative master at work.
He barrels into a file cabinet like a linebacker, toppling the whole thing onto three of the assailants. He doesn’t stop, just keeps cutting through attackers like a knife through warm butter. Thefwumpof falling bodies, the tang of rust as blood spatters, the rumble of each stomp and shot…
The reality of pointless death smashes into me like a freight train. My stomach flips, and I cover my mouth to suppress vomit.
I lived with a mafia family for the first twelve years of my life, but I never saw anything like this. Another man crumples, his bloody gaze staring straight into my soul.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe if I stay curled up in the fetal position, they’ll forget?—
Thick fingers close around my elbow and jerk me to my feet. A tall, bulky man with a dirty face grins, leering at me with one white, sightless eye. “The boss’ll be happy to get his hands onyou.”
Sheer terror blasts through me, stalling my heart.
What the hell is this, Kidnap Trinity Day?
I scream, swinging my bound hands at the man’s head. He catches them and laughs, the stench of booze and cigar smoke blowing over me.
Shit, shit shit…
My original captor flies at my new one with an unfettered roar. He slams One Eye’s skull against the wall behind us. After wrestling him into a headlock, Kidnapper One proceeds to slit Kidnapper Two’s throat with a Swiss Army knife to the soundtrack of a terrible crunch.
Hot, oil-thick blood spurts from the severed artery, splattering bright red designs on him, me, and the floor as the other guy collapses.
I remain frozen while a dead man’s blood drips down my cheeks and clothes, my stomach swooping as I struggle to swallow the acid rising in my throat.
