The injured shoulder.
I wince, grit my teeth to keep from crying out.
“I think you should leave,” a man I don’t know says. “You’re outnumbered. By a lot.” He squeezes my shoulder. “And not exactly up to the task.”
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask, turning to look at the man as I shove his hand from my shoulder. He’s got his head down too, as if he is also trying to stay out of sight.
“There are about a million cameras in here. This was stupid,” he adds as if I give a fuck what he thinks.
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask louder this time.
Another man approaches on my other side and they each take an arm. “This way,” he says as they lead me away from the stairs that would take me to the brothers’ perch.
I turn back in time to see another maybe ten soldiers descend those same stairs, several rushing toward the kitchen. We get to a set of double doors where the first man discreetly hands a folded bill to the one standing sentry. He glances around, pockets the bill, and pushes the door open.
Once we’re outside, an SUV pulls up, the back door opens, and I’m escorted into yet another vehicle. I take my pistol out of my pocket as the car pulls too fast away from Red’s, just as soldiers hurry from the door in the alley they took me in from.
“Again,” I ask, shifting my gaze to the first man, very aware how everything seems to be spinning. How sweat is dripping down my forehead and into my good eye. I meet the stranger’s eyes. “Who. The. Fuck. Are. You?” I cock the pistol and aim to his stomach.
He grins. “I’m the man saving your fucking life. Although I’m not quite sure it’s worth my time.”
The one on the other side of me grips my gun hand, which is already unsteady, and twists it back, relieving me of Petrov’s pistol. We’re driving fast, too fast, and cars honk their horns as we speed through a red light, sending two vehicles crashing into each other while we slip past. It’s like a fucking movie.
The driver laughs, drives a few more blocks before slowing at the command of the first stranger. A moment later, I’m tossed out onto the curb on my ass, the vehicle barely slowing, the pavement unforgiving as I crash down and watch the fuckers drive away.
16
Mara
“He’s alive?”
I hear them through the radio, Matthaeus shouting orders, a car’s tires screeching. The soldier they left behind to babysit me looks up at me, nods once.
Alive!
Goosebumps cover my arms as my heart races.
He’s alive!
I can’t believe it.
But an hour later, I hear them. Hear their boots on the metal stairs outside. I rush to the door when it opens. Matthaeus and another soldier walk in, Dante almost passed out between them, face bruised, one arm soaked in blood, wearing a coat too small and too tight on his shoulders.
“Dante!” I rush toward him, shocked and relieved he’s here. Really alive.
One of the guards intercepts me as Dante manages to lift his head momentarily before they take him to his bedroom and disappear inside. The soldier won’t let me enter so I stand in the hallway and listen. Smiling every time I hear the low rumble of his voice. Happier than I thought I could be to know he survived. Know he didn’t die in that terrible cellar.
“Do you ever stick to the fucking plan?” It’s Matthaeus.
“I’m alive, aren’t I? It’s fine.”
“It’s not fucking fine. And this is going to hurt.”
I think I hear Dante’s groan and I push against the guard to let me in. He doesn’t budge so, after pacing for ten minutes, I drop to a seat on the cold cement floor, my back against the wall to wait.
It’s more than an hour before Matthaeus finally comes out. He looks tired. Exhausted. He’s talking into his phone in Italian. I know it’s Italian and I know I spoke it once, but I don’t speak anymore. I understand what he’s saying though.
I get up to see Dante but again, the soldier stops me.
“I’m going to see him!” I yell into his face.
Matthaeus turns around, looks at me and nods to the soldier who steps out of the way. I push the door open. It creaks on its hinges. Still no doorknob. Dante is lying on top of the bed. He’s shirtless. His boots are off but he’s still wearing the same jeans he’d worn when he’d left. They’re dirty. Filthy with dark stains that I’m pretty sure are blood. I wonder how much of it is his.
I walk toward the bed, see the fresh bandages on his shoulder, the bruises beginning to color the skin of one arm. He’s badly scratched.
I shift my gaze to his face. His patch is still on, the other eye closed. His chest rises and falls with his breaths.