Page 3 of Antonio Miles

The furniture had been tossed around like toys and debris littered the area with dust still floating in the air. The large window at the far end was now a jagged hole letting in the gray light of morning.

A woman sat on the floor beside the overturned couch and table, her back against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. She was older than me, maybe thirty, with dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She wore flannel pajamas and no shoes. Her face was buried in her hands, and her shoulders shook with each sob.

I crossed the room and knelt beside her. Up close, I could see a dark bruise forming along her jawline, fresh enough that the skin was still swelling.

“Hey,” I said softly. “Where else are you hurt?”

She didn’t look up. Her fingers dug into her hair. “I can’t,” she whispered. “He’s coming. He’ll find me here.”

“No one’s coming in,” I said. “The club’s got the building locked down. We’ll be safe in the special room they built for us. Remember?”

She shook her head. “You don’t know him. He said he’d find me. He said he’d kill me if I ran.”

I reached for her hand, gently prying her fingers from her hair. Her skin was ice-cold. “What’s your name?”

She looked up then. Her eyes were red and swollen, the left one nearly shut from the bruising. “M-Melanie.”

“I’m Tessa. Melanie. You know these guys will stand between you and anyone trying to get you here. Right?” I thought I might do well to take my own advice.

Another impact shook the building. Melanie flinched hard and curled tighter into herself. “He’s here,” she whispered. “Oh God, he’s here.”

I put my arm around her shoulders. “Then let’s not be here when he arrives. Let’s put some very strong, locked doors between us and him. Yeah?”

Down the hall, something heavy hit the floor. A door, maybe, or a piece of furniture. Then a man’s voice, shouting orders I couldn’t make out. Boots on hardwood, moving fast.

Melanie’s breathing stopped. Her eyes fixed on the doorway.

I tightened my grip on her shoulder. “Melanie. Look at me.”

She didn’t.

“Melanie.” I put my hand on her cheek, turning her face toward mine. Her skin was clammy. “Whatever happens, you’re not alone. I’m right here. I’m not leaving you. But we need to move. Now.”

The boots were closer. Two sets, maybe three. Moving with purpose. I didn’t know if those were men from Kiss of Death or with whoever attacked Haven from outside, but I didn’t want to take any chances.

Melanie’s eyes found mine. She took a shuddering breath, weighing the shitty options before her. Then she nodded her head. “OK,” she whispered. “OK.”

I helped her to her feet. She swayed, unsteady, and leaned her slight weight against me. I put my arm around her waist and guided her toward the door, away from the sound of approaching boots, toward the safe room at the far end of the hall. We didn’t make it far before another deafening blast knocked us to the floor.

The world went white and my ears -- which still rang slightly -- took another beating and I had the inane thought that I’d never be able to hear properly again. Something hot grazed my arm. What was left of a service door on the outer wall now hung from twisted hinges, a jagged hole where the lock had been. The frame around it had buckled inward, taking chunks of drywall with it.

Smoke poured through the opening. Thick, chemical, nothing like fire smoke. Tear gas, maybe, or some kind of flash-bang residue. It burned my eyes and throat instantly. I coughed hard and my vision blurred with tears from the irritation.

Melanie was under me. I’d landed half on top of her when the blast hit. She wasn’t moving. I shook her shoulder as panic hit me in full force. The calm I’d tried so hard to surround myself with shattered. I knew if she didn’t open her eyes, I’d lose my Goddamned mind.

“Melanie! Melanie, come on!”

Her eyes fluttered open. She stared at me without recognition for a second, then panic flooded back into her expression. She started to scramble away from me, toward the overturned couch.

I grabbed her ankle. “No. Stay down.”

The gunfire started before I finished the sentence. Three rapid shots from somewhere beyond the ruined door, so close the sound was physical. Something hit the wall above our heads and plaster dust rained down. Then return fire. Deeper, heavier reports from multiple weapons. The Kiss of Death guys, engaging to protect their territory and us. I hoped.

Through the smoke, I could see hazy shapes moving in the open. Dark figures pushing through the doorway, met immediately by return fire. One figure dropped. Another retreated. The third kept coming, firing wildly into the room.

I pressed Melanie flat against the floor behind the overturned couch and put one hand on the back of her head. “Don’t move,” I whispered. “Don’t make a sound.”

She was trembling so hard I could feel it through my other palm where it rested heavily on her back.