Page 201 of Captive Ruin

I flash him once, then tie my robe tight. So we’re both twisted, but I’ve known that a while. Gripping my gun with both hands, I pad silently to his side.

He leans close until his lips are beside my ear, his breath caressing my skin. “Garage. Stay behind me.” He pauses, then adds, “Hot look for you, Little Stray.” Then he’s off, padding silently down the hallway.

Great. Fleeing for our lives from God-knows how many armed intruders, and he’s choosing now to make playful comments?

But it’s helped, my arousal pushing back my fear. I’m three steps after him before I realize he did it deliberately, and I’m absurdly grateful for it.

Van Wyk reaches the top of the stairs and glances over the banisters down into the entry hall, a single swift look. Then he turns, coming toward me. “Hold this,” he whispers into my ear, pushing his karambit into my hand. The handle is sticky against my palm. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“What?” The word slips out, but he’s gone already. Heading to my room.

It’s only a second or two, but standing there in the hallway, I’ve never felt more alone, more abandoned. My legs tremble, and I have to brace them so I don’t fall. The weapons in my hand are a scant comfort. I’m reasonably certain his karambit is covered in blood, but I can’t bring myself to look.

Then he’s back, and his presence is like feeling the sun on my face. He has an object in his hand, and he holds it up between us. He hooks a silver ring and pulls it free with a metallic click, and that’s when I realize it’s a grenade. And he’s just armed it, while we’re standing here.

I guess we’re not being quiet anymore.

Van Wyk winks at me for the second time in as many days, strolls nonchalantly to the top of the stairs, then drops the grenade over the banisters, spinning away in the same movement. He takes a knee, putting his weapon to his shoulder, and it looks like he’s aiming at me.

The world seems to freeze.

A concussive crump blasts through the house, smashing windows, shaking the floor, making me stumble and half fall. My legs are tangled in my robe, and I can’t breathe. I don’t know if it’s the pressure washing over me, driving the air away, or my own fear. My breath comes in but won’t go out, stuck at the top of my chest. My stomach is too tight.

A second passes while I steady myself, trying not to stab myself with his knife.

Men scream below, the sound raw and visceral, scraping my nerves.

Van Wyk fires, his weapon spitting out bullets with a staccato phut phut phut, the shots passing through the air inches from my face.

Someone cries out behind me, and I turn. Two figures emerge around the corner of the hallway, but one is already crumpling to the floor, the other windmilling back, blood spraying from his head.

I stare at them, stunned, until the sounds of more gunfire spin my attention toward Van Wyk. He’s halfway down the stairs, the weapon at his shoulder, firing steadily as he moves. The screams cut off.

He ejects the magazine, slapping in a second.

Silence descends.

He scans quickly, the weapon pointing where he’s looking. The lobby, down the hallway, at me. Then it points up. “Let’s go.”

I can’t move. I want to, but my legs aren’t responding. It’s all happened too fast.

I’m a gallery owner, not a contract killer. I’m not cut out for this.

“Come here please, Little Stray,” he says, his voice soft.

I want to, but my muscles won’t obey. My legs are trembling. I look at him helplessly, feeling so weak and hating it.

“I’ve got you,” he says, coming toward me. “It’s just adrenaline, nothing to worry about.”

What must he think of me? He said he’d never be disappointed, but this is his life, and I’m struggling to meet the grade. I can’t move.

He’s reaching for me, his hand almost in mine. I see the moment his eyes flick past, and widen. The horror in his face.

“No!” he shouts, and the hand that was reaching for mine slams into me, shoving me against the wall, his weapon firing wildly.

From behind me, someone shoots. I flinch, anticipating the pain that will surely follow. Instead, Van Wyk’s body is covering mine. He jerks once, twice. A third time. Warm, sticky fluid sprays me. With each hit, my own body flinches, each shot landing like a blow to my own chest. I’m not injured, but it feels like I am, as if the bullets that struck him struck me too. And I’m covered in his blood.

He grimaces in pain, his weapon falling from his fingers as his legs buckle and he drops to one knee.