It’s not the name I want to hear.
“And Nate. They’re here, and I need to take you to Nate,” he says, looking back over me and frowning. “Can you move?”
“Yes.” I step forward but buckle as my foot lands on something sharp. I look around the room to find my ankle boots and stuff my feet back into them. The rest of my clothes are a lost cause.
I step towards Jon but cower at the state I’m in. My hands grip the sides of my T-shirt and try to cover up my skin the best I can. He doesn’t seem to take note, checking the entry again rather than watching me.
“Stay close. Stay behind me, yeah?”
He raises the gun in his hands. How did I not notice that piece of machinery? Surely an automatic weapon is overkill? My stomach drops away as I hear more shots and shouts.
Jon exits and leads me through the corridors I came in through. If I’m right, we’re going back towards the main room—the hangar we came in through.
“No. Jon, wait. I need to find my brother.”
“Not my job.”
“Please,” I beg. I can’t let them keep him, can I?
“No. You stay with me.” He grabs my wrist and starts to pull me towards the sounds of violence. “There’s no time.”
“Get off me.” I struggle, pulling against his hold. He’s only got one hand on me, so I should be able to free myself. Just as I twist loose, I turn and run right into a solid wall. Harsh hands grip my shoulders, and as I lift my head, I know who’s got me. The American with the gold tooth. He smiles at me as if confirming who he is then wraps me up and pulls my back against his chest, hooking his arm around my neck. I struggle but it’s useless as he walks backwards, using me as a shield against Jon. His gun is raised and pointed at us both.
The last thing I want is to be in the clutches of this creep, but having a gun trained on me is something different. My throat constricts, tightening up and making it hard for me to breathe with a forearm the size of my thigh covering me.
We don’t make it to the end of the side corridor. A bang echoes in my head so loudly I can hear it reverberate through my bones. A stillness settles over the air, and then all the strength of the body hauling me away disappears. The wall of his chest falls back, and he drops to the ground. I look at Jon, shocked, and turn to the floor behind me to see a dark bullet wound in the middle of his forehead. Blood leaks from the crater and trickles along his skin.
“Don’t fucking fight me, Gabby,” Jon snaps, all warmth gone from his voice. “Stick to me like glue, or you’ll end up dead. You got that?” He stares at me with cold hard eyes, and I realise how stupid I’m being as I fall in line behind him, refusing to feel bad for the guy lying dead behind me. My bottom lip quivers as I suck in a few breaths and try to keep a hold on the war of confused emotions going on inside of me.
I follow him like a puppy, desperate to keep up with him and not make a foolish mistake again. If Nate really is here, he won’t leave my brother. We’ll find him eventually. Hopefully.
We pause outside of the doorway that led me to this nightmare. There’s a gap in the shooting and I can only imagine what I’ll see if I step through the door.
“Stay low and for fuck’s sake, don’t try anything stupid again.” Jon’s right back to business. He crouches and dips his head around the entrance for a split second, one arm back to brace me against the wall. Then he’s on the move and so am I, determined that I can get through this. One step at a time.
One step at a time.
He pauses behind a stack of crates, so I do what I said I would and keep my head down, focused on staying close to him. He huffs, head flicking left to right, gun still aimed into the room.
“We need to get across there,” he mutters, still searching for access through the sounding bullets. My hands cover my ears as the shots firing echo in the cavernous space, and I lift my eyes to see two men crouched down like us, twenty or so feet away. They’re shooting into the room, swinging their arms around the pallet loader and firing without giving us any room to run
Three bodies lie motionless around them. I look past Jon at the way we came in and scattered on the floor are more bodies. A steady pulse of bangs comes from somewhere, up high maybe, but I can’t see the source. The rhythm of firing pauses then speeds up, cracking in quick succession as I keep covering my ears at the intensity. When it stops, I peer around the edge of the crate, but Jon knocks me back, shaking his head at me and motioning for me to stay low.
“Moving,” he shouts, to whom I don’t know. “Follow. We need more cover.” He stands and heads straight across to where I saw two men shooting a moment ago. I scramble to follow and keep a hand on his back while trying to fit my body behind his. Two shots, then a third, and the men who were shooting join the body count lying out on the floor. “Nearly there, Gabby. Keep moving.”
We don’t stop behind the machine but continue to the far side of the room towards a door. Suddenly, Jon spins around to face me and pushes me out of the way. I turn back to see three men enter the room facing us, all with guns raised. Jon’s arm comes out to pull me behind him, and as it does, I feel the jolt through his body.
“Keep moving, Gabby,” he shouts at me as he returns fire. “Cover her.”
I’m trapped between what’s best—stay behind Jon or do as I’m told and make it across the next twenty feet or so to the far wall and the random stack of furniture and boxes. “Go!” Jon bellows, more bullets leaving his gun.
I crouch and bring my hands up over my head, my feet carrying me as fast as I can go. The moment I’m clear of him, the machine gun fires from up high again. Thunderous bangs rain down around me, and I crash to the floor, my knees rubbing against the harsh concrete as I crawl. Tears leak from my eyes as I anticipate the fire of pain ripping through my body. There’s so much noise from what must be hundreds of bullets being fired in the room.
But nothing stops me. I crawl right up to the corrugated iron wall and slump back against it, refusing to try making it to the door. A sofa and another few stacks of boxes make it hard for me to see out into the space, but there are clear lines of sight if I lift my head. I look back towards Jon, but he’s not behind me. He’s propped up against the back wall, his legs spread wide and one arm hanging limply from the shoulder. A river of blood trails down his arm and forms a pool where his hand is resting on the floor.
“Jon!” I cry. He can’t be dead. He came to save me.
“Gabby?”
I recognise that voice.
“Nate?” I lift my head up and look out over the edge of the desk. Just past the boxes, out towards the centre of the room, there’s another pallet loader. Nate’s standing next to it, his brother behind him. Nate’s arm is raised, the gun at the end of his hand scanning, pointing and ready to engage anyone that comes into his sight.
My heart flips in my chest, and all of a sudden, I can’t breathe.
“Stay there, Gabby. Don’t fucking move,” he snarls. I choke on nothing as I look at him, barely able to appreciate the vision. He looks so different, like a wall of hate.
“Nate, please.” My eyes check sideways, noting the empty corridor away from me. “We need to get out of here. You need to move.”
Nate moves, and Quinn comes into view, their backs pinned to one another. They both fire more shots out into the room. “Where the hell’s Jon?” Nate calls.
Quinn ducks and turns them back the other way again, both of their arms still levelled at anything moving.
“He’s been shot.”
A flash of hurt crosses his features, but it’s replaced instantly by more anger—an anger I’ve never seen from him before. “And Frankie?”
“I don’t know who he is.” The bang of a bullet ricocheting from somewhere close has me diving back down and keeping out of sight. “Nate!”
A line of muffled words comes from between him and his brother. Everything in my heart tells me to keep an eye on Nate, but I can’t find the courage to put my head back over to check him. I pull what’s left of my
T-shirt over my chest and hug my knees, making myself as small as possible. I can’t do this.
Shock seeps in, like ice running through my body and freezing my blood. It turns me to stone. All the adrenaline that got me here has faded, and the reality of the situation I’ve got to face is closing in around me, suffocating me. He’s out there, bullets showering down on him. I can’t breathe. I can’t even look anymore.
“Gabby!” Nate bellows.
His voice makes me lift my eyes just in time to see two men coming towards my hiding place. They stalk forward, both carrying guns out in front and pointing them at me. I move back behind another stack of drawers, desperate to put another barrier between us, but I know I have nothing to prevent them from advancing.
I rest my head against the box and wait for the inevitable, watching as Nate breaks cover, his brother still glued to his back as he aims at the two men coming towards me. He squeezes the trigger, a look of deadly aggression in his eyes. Everything slows. The gun in Nate’s hand pulls back and a bullet launches from the barrel, speeding through the air. It hits the man at the rear, and he drops to the floor. My eyes stay on Nate, drawing strength from him. He came for me. He’s done this for me—waged war and slaughtered men.
For me.
Energy seeps back into me from somewhere, making me crawl between the stack of crates and try to make my way to him. If I want to see an end to this, I need to be with him. And just as slowly, as I make my way towards him, I see a bullet shred high into his right thigh. I gasp, my own legs giving way under the sight as his leg buckles a little. A spray of blood coats his trousers instantly, but he doesn’t seem to miss a beat as he fires three more shots at the man who shot him.
“Nate!” My scream fills the room. My chest heaves as I gasp for breath I can’t find.
Oh god, no.
Then, silence.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
My breath fogs the carnage in front of us as I stare at her, my back still resting on Quinn’s.
We’ve barely moved from this position in the centre of the room, a loader our only cover. We’ve stood firm, back to back, for once in tune with what the outcome needed to be. Whether that was for the same reasons or not is irrelevant. I did it for her.
Risked us all—for her.
I’d do it again.
Something moves to the right of me. It jolts me back into action, arm swinging to pull this trigger again if I have to. There’s nothing there, only the remnants of scattered bodies and a latent display of brutality. I look high, peering into the last corners there are, checking again and again for any more threats as I feel Quinn do the same.
Nothing.
It’s done. Over.
My leg finally gives way under the pressure, the blood seeping from my thigh causing agony and forcing me to slide down his frame until I hit the floor. He comes with me, giving me something to lean on just like he’s always done. I look back to her the second I’m down, breath panting out as I let her seep back into me, happy this bullet is lodged in my leg.
Two of the fuckers went for her. I turned, locked onto them without thought to myself, and this fucking round coming from another direction and bedded in my flesh was the result. And yet still I look at her now as if she’s the only thing in the room, barely registering anything but the bruising and blood on her face and the torn state of her clothes. It brings a rage through my shaking hand, regardless of the massacre around us, making me desperate to keep killing for reasons I can’t fathom. I hate it—hate that feeling inside me, no matter the reason it’s there. It consumes rationality, makes the sensible reckless.
Thoughtless.
Idiotic.
My gun rattles on the floor beside me, fingers trying to let go of it without releasing the metal. I don’t know why. Everything’s confused, mind blurred. So much death. So many dead. Blood sprayed, brains damn well blown all over the walls around us. Jon’s gone. Frankie, too. I watched them protect us, though. Watched them try. They fought like Quinn does as the ones we couldn’t get to crowded in, taking bullets to keep us safe. That thought alone destroys what’s left of the morals I held so close.
She gazes back with little emotion on her face. Perhaps she’s as lost as I am in the middle of this. This isn’t my territory. It’s Quinn’s. And yet I can’t release the damn gun in my hand. It won’t leave me, like it’s trying to stay close, still trying to protect us all.
“You okay?” Quinn says.
I shake my head. No, I’m not okay. I’m a fucking mess of conflicted feelings and screwed up emotions. And all I want to do is crawl across this blood splattered ground to get to her, regardless of the fact it all happened because of her. He moves behind me, causing my body to collapse to the side, gun finally falling from my grip as I keep staring at her frame. She looks so scared, her body quivering and shaking, eyes locked with mine.
“Get Gabby,” I mutter, pointing towards her. He looks me over, a frown on his face. “Bring her here, Quinn.” He shoves me sideways, lifting my leg until he can see the wound.
“Jesus,” he barks, moving me the other way and checking my back. “Why the fuck didn’t you say something?” He stands up and drags out his phone. I don’t know why I didn’t say anything. Perhaps I didn’t care as long as she was alive.
Love does shit like that to people.
“Quinn, I need her here.”
“Alright,” he says, roughing my hair.
He walks off, phone attached to his ear as he aims for her. Still she looks at me, no movement to acknowledge his presence between us. I smile as he gets to her, watching as she bats him away and remember that attitude of hers, thankful it’s still as strong.
“Yo, Quinn,” Den calls down from up high. I glance at him, watching him scale the sides down to the concrete we’re on. “The woman’s gone. Two of them bundled her into a Jeep. You want me to follow?” Rusty picks my head up and rests me flat down before I can check Quinn’s response, his hand pushed directly onto the bullet in my thigh.
“Fuck you,” I snap, the pain surging under his force.
He chuckles and looks back to where Quinn and Gabby are, hand reaching for something. A swathe of blue material is passed to him, what’s left of Gabby’s top I presume, and tied around my leg. Too fucking tight in my opinion, and the growl that leaves my throat has him backing it off a little for comfort’s sake. And then she’s there.
Real. Alive.
And nearly fucking naked.
Another growl leaves my mouth as I look her over, checking for injury, my hand reaching for her face. She smiles, cheek fitting into my fingers like it always does. She’s so cold, though, just like the smile she’s giving me. I know the feeling well. It’s the same one that’s coursing my blood—regret and hate for what’s happened, no matter how much it was necessary to save her.
Neither of us are killers, are we? Thieves maybe, but not killers.
Although, that’s fucking debatable now.
“Den, check for the brother,” I mutter out, looking to where I shot him. He’s not there, but that doesn’t mean he’s dead. “Shoulder wound.” She keeps looking at me as I try to get up off Rusty, and then slips in behind me, taking Rusty’s place and putting her own hand on my thigh to keep me in place. “And give Gabby your goddamn shirt.” It’s dropped by her side within seconds, and I feel her shrug into it.
“You gonna speak at all?” I ask, letting myself fall against her. It’s kinda nice after all this shit. And I can’t get my fucking breath back for some reason. Tired.
“I’m not sure what to say.” Her lips tremble as she pushes the words out.
I nod at that. Me either.
I stare at Quinn as he goes about checking Jon and Frankie’s bodies, hoping they might still be alive I assume, and place my hand over hers. She links our fingers, and I look down at them together, blood mingling along with the move. She’s covered with it, her arms striped with her own dried war, one she must have fought before I got here to stop it.
<
br /> “You hurt?” I ask, trying to reach back for her with my other hand and cringing at the thought of her telling me the truth. I know this shit, know what happens in places like this to pretty hostages. I could have got here earlier, done all this quicker. But I hoped for coercion rather than all this death. Hoped that was the best bet to keep us alive and try to stave off war. Should have damn well stormed in like Quinn said, all fucking guns blazing. It’s the way it’s ended up regardless.
Stupid fucking Yakuza bitch.
Such is this screwed up life we all lead.
She pushes my hand back to my side and nudges herself in closer to me, holding tight and resting her chin on my head.
“No. Not really. That’s done now.”
It’ll never be done, but maybe she can weather it a little better than my mother has. Time will tell. And if she can’t, I’ll spend my fucking life exacting revenge on Yakuza for what they’ve done.
Cane safety be damned.
Her fingers run through my hair as Quinn walks back. She strokes with a repose of calm, some part of her able to see through this butchery and concentrate on the here and now. I can’t. All I can see is death and anger, all of it coming from my hand. I look at him as he walks back, watch his lack of compassion bleed into the air around him. How does he do that? It means nothing to him, does it?
Cold bastard.
“Come on, you. We gotta get you out of here,” he says, reaching down to me.
I’m shrugged up to his side, arm lifted around his shoulder until Rusty replaces Gabby again and heaves me onto him, too. It’s fucking painful. Every step is like a damn knife digging into me, but then that’s what comes of protecting those you love, and I growl the pain away as we walk through the bloodbath of prone bodies. Fuck, it hurts, though, and I can’t put weight on it, can’t feel that side of me at all now I think about it. My body drops suddenly, good leg giving way beneath me as I fall into Quinn and Rusty.
“You alright?” Quinn asks, hoisting me up further onto him. I shake my head, trying to see clearly and keep moving with them, but I can barely feel my legs anymore, so he keeps dragging me along the corridor.
Devious Eyes (A Cane Novel Book 2) Page 25
