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“It’s bad luck” I flatly reply

“It’s a middle aged wannabe Godfather in a terraced house. Pussy.”

I grunt through my nose in disapproval and flip him off. He makes a heart hands gesture back. I shake my head and pinch the bridge of my nose, hiding my chuckle.

“Two minutes” comes the voice from the front. I don’t question the driver. I don’t need to. Reaper would never put some unknown in the driving seat. This will be someone who rolls exactly how we do - almost definitely another Bastard.

Balaclavas on, guns loaded and we stand with our weapons ready, gripping the handles hanging from the roof. The fidgets kick in, my body activating ready for what’s about to come. Easy job. In, double-tap, out. Simple. Precise. The van pulls along the street and reverses up the driveway.

On command the doors fly open and we burst out of the van. It takes seconds to get through the front door, two canisters of smoke and we move. We’re working through the house and searching the rooms in no time, falling back into step with one another like we’ve never been apart. Each room is the same, only our laser-sights and mounted flash lights cut through the darkness and smoke.

“Clear” and next room, living room, dining room, kitchen, conservatory, stairs, master bedroom, en suite, second bedroom, third bedroom, fourth bedroom.

“It’s clear mate, he’s not here” Reaper gives up “Shame really, I’d love to have shot that wily fucker”

We extract and sit in the back of the van driving along when I check my phone. Three missed calls and a voicemail. It’s Sawyer.

“Nik… they’re here…” the rest of the audio is unintelligible, but the smashing glass and bullets thudding into concrete is unmistakable.

Twenty Nine

Sawyer

What do I even do when he’s not here? I can’t remember. It’s not like I’m not used to spending time on my own. Dan leaves me, or I guess left me, to go out at night all the time and it never really bothered me. I don’t like this. I can’t say the house is quiet without him because honestly the man makes zero fucking noise ninety-nine percent of the time. I put the hockey on, avoiding his team - no spoilers, obviously, I’m not a total bitch. I wonder what he’s doing? It feels like he’s been gone ages. I check the time. Thirty seven minutes, Sawyer, he’s been gone thirty seven minutes. Grow up.

My stomach drops through my arsehole when I hear tyres screeching and car doors slamming outside. Somehow I know, in my leafy suburb, this is bad news, and it’s heading my way. Fuck. Shit. Bollocks. Oh my God what do I do?

All the lights are on, the curtains aren’t even drawn. I grab my phone, stay low and move as quickly as I can. Where am I even going to go? This isn’t like yesterday. It’s not fun at all. Don’t cry. Survive. Staying low I move from the living room to behind the kitchen worktop, desperately trying to dial Nik. I dial again. Voicemail, this is not a voicemail situation, Nik, answer your fucking phone. All I manage is “Nik… they’re here”.

I look towards the patio doors, maybe I can make a run for it. Then the glass breaks, and so many bullets come through the windows. I instinctively cover my ears and dive flat onto my stomach. People can’t outrun bullets, and there is no space to be zigging and zagging in a garden.

They can’t see me yet. Concealment. I need cover. I dive back into the living room, upstairs is the only option. Whilst they’re busy trying to get through the door I clamber up the stairs, trying again to dial Nik. Where the fuck are you, Nik? I need you, I need you now. I keep redialling, as I sprint, nothing. Definitely not the fucking wardrobe this time, jackass. I’ve got to find cover.

My en-suite, it’s landlocked and the walls are load bearing… concrete stops bullets. I run in and shut the door behind me, as quietly as I can. I’ve just got to buy time. Locking the door behind me I shift the cabinet unit behind it, turning it just enough to wedge between the door and the bathtub.

Their voices get clearer, they’re at the bottom of the stairs, which means they’ve searched down there already and are heading up. Stay fucking quiet. I squeeze myself as small and low as I can with my head right by the U-bend of the toilet in the corner. The footsteps making their way through each of the bedrooms.

My heart jumps out of my throat when I hear footsteps invade the threshold to my bedroom. Tears stream down my face. This isn’t how I want to die. I don’t want to die. I want Nik.

I don’t know if I gave myself away, but the doorknob rattles and the door threatens to give way with every shoulder booming crunch. The pause between bangs starts to increase, I guess they must be getting tired… what do we do now? Come on, Nik, please. My prayers are interrupted when they open fire. The only bullets coming through are the ones that splinter through the door and shatter the tiles.

They’re here to kill me. Don’t die, comply doesn’t really work when their only goal is to kill me. I cry into the tiles, waiting to be hit and bleed out here, alone. The sounds of gunfire and bullets bouncing is deafening even through my hands cupped over my head.

They stop firing for a second, I guess reloading or something. Then I hear… I don’t know what that is. A fucking loud bang, some screaming commotion. And within seconds, complete and utter silence.

His voice cuts through everything, the first time I’ve heard him sound anything except confident and sure of himself.

“Sawyer?!” he shouts through the splintered door

“I’m here… I’m… OK” I call back after checking myself, somehow I escaped mostly unscathed. I’m glad I didn’t just have my back to the door. My knees weaken as I realise that one mistake would’ve just cost me my life.

I do my best to shift the cabinet back out of the way and as soon as he can reach, I’m pulled through the remnants of the door and into his arms. My legs wrapped around his hips as he cradles me.

“I didn’t think you would get here in time” I sob into his chest “I was so scared” after I run out of tears, and have wiped my nose on his top multiple times “I can’t do this. I’m just a girl!” and I realise how I sound, but I don’t care. It’s true. I’m not some super killer big scary man. I’m a five foot fuck all folded into my protector who, when I needed him, was fucking absent.

“Baby, I’m sorry…” he starts and I rain hammer fists on his chest, not letting him finish

“No, fuck you, you don’t get to be sorry - you did this! Fuck you and fuck that gu… who the fuck is that?” for the first time since emerging from my little hellhole I take a look at the carnage.