“I’m ready, I’m ready!” I pant, joining him at the door, every nerve ending in my body crackling like fireworks on the fourth of July.
My knees are weak, panic not far from pulling me under. A few deep breaths take the edge off, but everything inside me pulsates as Vaughn yanks the door open, wheeling himself out.
He speeds down the corridor as quietly as possible, shushing me over his shoulders when I break into a sprint behind him. Easy for him toshhwhen he’s in a wheelchair that barely makesa sound. My feet stomp across the thin, cheap carpet, thudding around like little claps of approaching thunder.
I’m not sure what time it is, but it must be the middle of the night. The window at the end of the hallway tells me it’s still dark outside. I chase after Vaughn, struggling to keep up. I’m hauling two suitcases, my purse, my pockets are stuffed with my small belongings, my book is under one arm and....fuck.
I forgot my jacket.
Damn it!
My first instinct is to blurt the information out for Vaughn. That’d be a mistake. I bite my tongue, remembering the fury I faced last time I forgot the damn thing.
It took me—correctioncost us—seventeen seconds as I ran back to grab it, and I didn’t hear the end of it for weeks.
Never turn back, Bianca. Never. It was reckless. You could’ve gotten hurt. They could’ve been just around the corner.
They... the ones looking for us.
No way am I turning back again and facing Vaughn’s disapproval for the foreseeable future. One overbearing monologue repeated ten times over was quite enough, thank you very much. He let it go the first time, aftertwo weeks, only because it was our first evacuation. He gave me some grace, but now... the fourth time around, he expects me to be much smarter.
We turn the corner. Vaughn summons the elevator, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the wheelchair while concentrating on the screen counting down the numbers to our floor. I glance around, half expecting a menacing guy in a balaclava hot on our tail, gun drawn, murder on his to-do list for the night, but the corridor is empty. Empty and silent.
I almost jump out of my skin, letting out a startled yelp when the doors slide open with a ding.
“In,” Vaughn snaps, already inside the narrow elevator, turning his wheelchair to face me.
I wheel the suitcases inside, my heart pounding in my ears. The fear infesting my system grows potent enough to cut my legs from under me.
It wasn’t half as bad last time we were running.
Maybe because, last time, we left in the middle of an uneventful afternoon and only because Vaughn spotted two men in dark suits sitting out in the street in a black BMW.
This time, I have no idea what he saw.
What if he spotted Blaze? Or Carter himself?
What if a whole army of mafia men is heading this way?
What if we’re surrounded?
What if we’re about to die?
It doesn’t help that my brain still hasn’t had enough time to wake up. My body is electrified with adrenaline, but my brain is lagging. It’s been sixty seconds since Vaughn woke me. Any other day, I’d need about thirty minutes and a cup of strong coffee to function like a normal person.
“Load the suitcases while—”
“I know,” I clip, cutting him off. “I remember. Suitcases in while you do your part, then wheelchair in, and off we go.” My voice is hoarse, fear dripping from every trembling word.
He nods, his shoulders hiking up when the elevator stops at an underground parking lot. Gun in hand, Vaughn scans the vast space before pushing his wheels as hard as possible. The car sits opposite the elevator, ready for a quick getaway. Though considering it’s an old piece of junk, the wordquickdoesn’t work.
He grabs fake number plates from the trunk, sticking them on while I throw the suitcases onto the back seat. There’s not enough room in the trunk for our luggage and his wheelchair.
Twenty seconds later, he adjusts his useless legs behind the wheel. Once the wheelchair is stashed away, I take the passenger seat, buckling up, my butt sliding about the worn leather while Vaughn reverses out of the parking space, wheels squealing against the asphalt.
I check the clock on the dashboard. Two-thirty in the morning. I had less than two hours of sleep. No wonder it’s taking me so long to get my bearings.
I was never good at waking up in the middle of the night.
