***
The first bullet chewed up the bathroom door, missed my head by an inch, and drilled a crater in the cracked tile. I shoved forward, boots sliding on the scummy floor, as another round popped the light above me and sprayed glass everywhere. The whole room went from shit blue to darker than a coffin, but I didn’t need to see to know where the next Leatherback would be. Between the girl and me.
I hit the main room low and hard, Glock out. Melissa’s wrists were cuffed to the bed, her face a constellation of fresh damage, but her eyes burned bright when she saw me. I pressed a finger to my lips, thumbed the lock pick from my boot, and crept to her side.
She grinned, even with a busted mouth. “Took you long enough.”
“Had to make sure I looked pretty for you.” I said it with my teeth bared, not because I was trying to be cute, but because every movement made my ribs scream.
She nodded at the key ring on the dead guy’s belt. “Cuffs.”
I snatched it, hands shaking but steady where it counted. I was halfway through the mechanism when the next two Leatherbacks crashed in, guns drawn, yelling so loud it shook the ceiling tiles.
I shoved Melissa down behind the mattress, got off two shots. The first hit the lead Leatherback in the meat of the shoulder—blood geysered, and he fell back against the wall, shrieking. The second was wide, but it put the other guy off for half a heartbeat. That’s all the time Saint needed.
He came straight for me, knife low and fast, the blade glinting. I brought my gun up, but he batted it away with a forearm and drove the knife into my side, right between the busted ribs. The pain was so pure I lost my vision for a second. It was just white, then black, then I was on the floor with Saint on top of me, hand grinding the blade in until I thought it was going to punch out the other side.
I’d been stabbed before, but never like this. Saint did it like he was tuning a guitar, little half-twists and yanks that found every nerve and made them dance. I tried to bringmy gun up, but he grabbed my wrist and bent it backward until the bones popped. The gun skittered under the bed. He leaned close, breath hot on my ear.
“Should’ve stayed home, Augustine.”
“Fuck you,” I grunted and headbutted him. I felt his nose go, cartilage crunching, and he reeled back just enough for me to get a hand around his throat. We rolled, him on top, then me, then back again, blood and spit and curses everywhere.
The girl didn’t waste time. She snapped the handcuff chain with the key and launched herself at Saint, biting into his ear so hard I saw red spray on the wall. He screamed, let go of the knife, and tried to shake her off. I reached down, fingers shaking, and yanked the blade out of my own ribs. It made a wet slurp, like opening a yogurt. I almost puked.
I jammed the blade into Saint’s thigh, twisted until he howled, then rolled off him. He staggered back, clutching his leg, and tried to swing at Melissa. She ducked, spat out a piece of his ear, and went for the dropped Glock under the bed. She got it and leveled it at his head, hands steady even with the blood running down her arm. She handed me the gun.
Saint froze, bleeding from everywhere. He sized us up—me, leaking from a dozen new holes, her,wild-eyed and steady—and smiled, a death’s head grin. “You’re both dead,” he said, “You know that?”
“Not before you,” I said, and fired.
The round hit him square in the sternum, knocking him back into the cheap motel art. He slid down the wall, leaving a red trail, and didn’t move again.
The room went quiet, except for the wet rattle of my own breathing. I collapsed next to the bed, blood soaking through my shirt. Melissa knelt beside me, hands pressed to my side. “Don’t die,” she whispered.
“I’m not planning on it,” I lied.
From outside, I heard sirens, or maybe just the echo of my own pulse in my ears. Either way, time was up.
“Can you walk?” I asked.
She looked at her legs, shrugged. “Sure.”
“Good. Grab the bag.” I pointed at the duffel on the floor, the one Saint had brought in, probably filled with whatever they thought they’d need for a weekend of torture. I didn’t care. I just wanted the painkillers.
She hefted it, then slung my arm over her shoulder. We staggered to the bathroom window, me leaving a trail the whole way. She popped it open, then hauled me through like I was a sack of garbage.
I landed in the cold night, pavement rough against my knees. Carl was there, blood on his face, one eye swollen shut.
“You get her?” he slurred.
“Yeah,” I said. “Help me up.”
He grabbed my good arm, and together we made for the truck. Melissa ran point, Glock in hand, eyes scanning for movement. I liked her style.
“Did you kill him?” Carl asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “He died ugly.”
