Page 8 of Enemy of the Heart

His knuckles are white where he grips the steering wheel, and I remind myself that he’s new to the life of a criminal. Although he’s doing far better than I expected. At least he hasn’t thrown up yet. Murder can be a nauseating business, even when you don’t regret it. A strong stomach is advantageous.

Sean follows my instructions. I have him make five more turns until there’s no longer any sign of the military vehicle in the rear-view, and I’m certain they aren’t following us.

As we near the airport, I notice a large plane descending in the sky. I grin as giddiness threatens to take a bite of me, but just before its jaws clamp down, I force myself to calm. We can’t afford to be sloppy. Not now.

Several blocks from the airport, Sean parks in an alleyway. “We should be on foot from here,” I utter quietly.

Sean’s chiseled jaw is tight, his copious muscles bunched with tension as he dips his chin in confirmation. When he reaches for the handle, I grasp his bicep, forcing his attention back to me.

Leaning over the console, I press my lips to his. The kiss lasts a few too-short seconds, but it’s enough.

“We will survive this. Together, or not at all.”

He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips for the first time since we left the beach.

Side by side, we begin our trek toward the airport, and I notice that Sean positions himself between me and the road. While his chivalry is wholly unnecessary, especially given the circumstances, the organ beneath my serpent tattoo hiccups.

The reverberating rumble of a jet engine vibrates beneath my feet and through me, putting a bounce in my gait as we approach true freedom.

When a family approaches us on the sidewalk, Sean tucks me to his side, and I nearly snigger at his obvious attempt to appear like a normal couple. But there’s nothing normal about us.

Clothing aside, I’m covered in cuts and bruises, my hair is a disheveled mess, and I’m beaming like a goddamn wanker. Sean’s gruff, impenetrable expression casts a shadow larger than his large frame, drawing attention to him.

Dressed in kitschy, matching Hawaiian shirts, the family is clearly here on vacation, seemingly oblivious to our status as fugitives. When the older man nods at us, Sean dips his chin solemnly, looking like he’s being led to the gallows, not walking toward a plane that’s going to whisk us to safety.

Chewing on the inside of my cheek to keep myself from giggling, I slide my hand into Sean’s, fusing us together tangibly while the cords of love and trust twine themselves around our hearts.

Every car that zips by on the quiet street has me bracing myself and sprouting eyes in the back of my head. As we draw closer to the airport, I spot two enormous planes idling on the tarmac. I step in front of Sean, practically skipping toward the small airport as I drag him along behind me with a grin so wide that it nearly splits my face in half.

“How the fuck are we getting in?” Sean mutters, catching up to me in one long stride. Glancing around, I note the locked gates and copious amounts of razor wire sitting atop the chain link. If we want to keep our skin intact, climbing the fence is out of the question.

That kind of looping razor wire is a trap. It’s designed to collapse inward, ensnaring anyone who dares to clamber over it; the tiny blades grip everything from skin to clothing and refuse to let go.

We’d need a shovel—and a couple of days—to tunnel beneath the fence, so that’s not a viable option either. Just then, a utility vehicle approaches the sliding gate. Sean and I lock eyes, our hands disconnecting as we both take off at a dead sprint. My combat boots swiftly chew up the distance as my toes ram against the end of the boots.

Sweat dots my skin, my chest burning with exertion, but there’s no bloody way we’re letting this opportunity pass. The rolling barricade has begun to close when we approach, and we slip into safety just before it shuts us out again.

I prance toward the largest of the planes, the one with a Latin prefix to the registration number on the tail. But as I practically dance beneath the sunshine, our getaway within reach, I make a critical error, committing a cardinal sin in my line of work.

One that can’t be undone.

Sean

The moment happens in slow motion. My own personal Lingchi, a blade for every man hidden in the manicured tropical landscaping of the airport building slices into my chest.

Louhi doesn’t see the small platoon until it’s too late. There’s no time to shout, no warning I can blare, no smoke signal I can send up. I’m simply forced to watch as the hidden uniformed men, tucked out of sight, fire at the piece of my heart walking outside of my body.

Fuck.

Impressively—through skill or luck, I don’t know—Lou dodges the first spray of gunfire, spinning out of the way. She has the Glock in her hand in less than a handful of seconds, pulling the trigger in under fifteen. Three shots later, an equal number of men are already down, blood leaking from their bodies.

Without any cover, this is a dangerous situation. She’s in the line of fire, and she shouldn’t be there alone. Drawing my own handgun, I stalk closer to her, firing two rounds at the closest member of the team I fought for only yesterday. These men were my friends, my brothers, but they’ve threatened Lou’s safety. I understand that they’re simply following orders, but the orders are flawed.

Scanning the group, I ensure that I don’t see Jace, and when I don’t spot his build or honey-hued eyes, I pull the trigger four more times. While I want to, I don’t bother shielding Louhi since she’d shove me out of the way. Hiding isn’t her style.

We manage to eliminate the dozen or so men unscathed. My mind goes blank and hazy, white noise filling my head as I lose myself in the fight.

“I only have three rounds left,” Lou announces in a clipped, strained tone, her voice breaking into my thoughtless actions. I open my mouth to reply, but the rattle of an older vehicle interrupts our conversation. We both turn in time to find a Humvee loaded down with more men entering through the gate, heading straight for us.