Casually opening the door, Dorian left down the passage made of metal and sealed the door behind him. “Make it count, T.B.”
Adam turned back to his friends. “You got something in there to shatter this glass?”
“Absolutely,” Dan said.
“Light them up,” Adam said. “I’m going after that son of a bitch.”
* * *
Mercedes opened her eyes. They were wet with tears. Or was it blood? She couldn’t tell.
She clasped at the gunshots on her hip and shoulder, trying to roll over so she could sit up. Spitting out a chunk of blood and holding her wounds, she attempted to stand. Her walk was only a stagger.
She wasn’t dead. That was good news.
In her hands she held the last of her knives, the cool metal pressing against her skin as she stumbled toward the open door of the warehouse.
Hot. It would have to be hot.
“Fuck.” Groaning, she fell against the outside wall and steadied herself, one hand clutching the wall, and the other holding her bleeding stomach in. She looked back at the puddle on the pavement, at the amount of blood she’d lost.
She had to push on and she had to make it fast. She knew she didn’t have long.
The guards she’d killed still laid on the floor, blood crusting on the tile. Like her grip on this world, her strength was slipping, too. She dropped to the floor in a heap. Her body only another broken one against the men she’d ended.
But her breath was still there. Heavy and panting, but there, nonetheless. A groan had her rolling onto her back. “One of these bastards better have a lighter,” she mumbled.
It was a struggle to reach the dead man nearest to her. To search his pockets to no avail. Wincing, she moved on, dragging her body and leaving a canvas of blood in her wake.
She reached the next body, searching his pockets, too. She found a pack of cigarettes. Close! But not what she needed. When there was nothing in his pants, she searched his suit jacket and found his cigarette lighter.
Thank fuck.
A few more pained movements and she was sitting upright, back leaned against the wall. She brought the knife and the lighter together, heating the tip. Heating until it was so hot that the blade turned blue.
No one was coming for her. This was the only way. She could save herself. She reminded herself of that over and over and over as she stared at the burning tip of the knife. Asking herself just how fucking crazy she must be to even think of attempting this.
Short and sharp breaths in.
One second, two seconds. Stop. Repeat.
She pressed the knife in bursts against her wounds. Continuing a cycle of only a few seconds at a time, she sealed her wound from the outside in, until the bleeding at her hip stopped.
Giving herself only a moment to stop and cry out in pain, she repeated the process on her shoulder. One second, two seconds. Stop. Repeat.
Once she was done, she threw the knife away and stood, staggering again as she walked out of the warehouse, through the parking lot and to a nearby car.
It took longer than usual for her to smash the window, get in and hotwire the car. But sure enough, she did it. And once she was back in the driver’s seat where she belonged, she strapped herself in tight, wiped at her eyes, and sped off through her blurred vision.
On her way to kill Dorian Blake.
27
TWO MEN ENTER
JUNE 1991
Adam kicked the door open. Face dripping with blood down his brows and into his mouth.
