“Yep,” I say and aim at his knee. Pulling the trigger and taking great delight in hearing him scream. “I’ll ask you again…where is Ramsey?”
I don’t think he heard me over his own screams.
I don’t bother asking again. They clearly didn’t expect me or illegal weapons. I grab the gun that was kicked out of my hand and stalk out of the office. I run up the stairs to the second floor which, consists of sectioned off spaces down the one side.
My instinct is to call out for Ramsey, but I keep as quiet as I can, searching through three of the sections before I find him, slumped in a chair, half-conscious, his arm at an odd angle, his hand messed up where his nails have been pulled off.
I feel the nausea roll over me before I push it back.
“Ramsey,” I say quietly, approaching him carefully.
He lifts his head up. “Ruby,” he says hoarsely through split lips.
I check the rest of the section to find it’s empty. I shove both guns into the back of my pants again and pull out my hunting knife. I go behind him and cut the zip tie that’s holding his hands together. He groans in agony which tells me he has a dislocated shoulder and probably a broken wrist as well.
“Can you stand?” I ask.
He nods and stands up straight away, swaying slightly and then grunting, holding his side.
Broken ribs.
“We need to get out of here,” I mutter, although I’m still surprised by the lack of real resistance. Something is off, very, very off.
I grab his arm and lead him to the stairs. We take them slowly but as soon as we get to the bottom, Ramsey’s knees give away. Distracted, I catch him before he falls and that’s when I’m jerked back by a strong hand on my arm.
“You think you can shoot me and walk away?” the guy I shot in the knee bellows in my ear, spinning me around, so that I have to let go of Ramsey, or risk him collapsing into my attacker. Ramsey goes down as my attacker grabs my wrist, the one with the knife in my hand, turning me and viciously dragging it behind my back.
“Ah,” I cry out as I feel my arm about to give way, but there isn’t a chance in hell, he is getting the better of me.
I kick out, slamming my foot into his shot knee. He screams, but doesn’t let go of me. He has a high pain threshold and I’m marginally impressed.
“Bitch,” he snarls.
“Been called worse by better,” I spit out, knowing I have to get to one of the guns before he does.
Too late. I feel it pressed to my temple and my heart stops for a second.
Just a second.
If this fuckhead thinks he can take me out with my own weapon, he is seriously deluded.
“Ruby! No, this isn’t…don’t…” I hear Ramsey shout out, but I focus solely on the man holding my arm behind my back and a gun to my head. I have one chance to get this right.
One.
If I miss, or don’t hit him hard enough, I’m dead and so is Ramsey. I have no doubt this one will pull the trigger, damning the consequences.
I close my eyes, pushing the scene of the last time I had to do this out of my head. I rear back and as hard as I can slam the back of my head into his nose. He bellows and lets go of my twisted arm. I cry out as it drops loosely to my side, knowing that I’ve damaged myself by forcing my body into an unnatural angle to headbutt him as hard as I could.
He stumbles back, one hand to his nose, the other waving the gun about wildly. He fires at random, but I’m too late to move out of the way.
The bullet grazes my thigh, tearing through the leather pants and my skin closer than I’d have liked.
“Damn you,” I grunt and pull the other gun out, aiming it at his head. The sweat from the last few minutes dripping down my forehead, my ears ringing from the sound of the shot at close range.
All I can hear is my heartbeat.
All I can smell is my own blood.
I tune out Ramsey calling my name.
I flinch when another gunshot rings out and my attacker falls to the floor at my feet, a bullet in his head.