I grip the back of Devil’s shirt and follow him back the way I came. Before we hit the back door that leads to the alley, we make a left. The short hallway opens up into the public side of the bar. And where the rest of Jacob’s crew of misfit kidnappers are getting as good as they are giving.
Riot, Rage, and Ares are in the middle of the bar. If it isn’t nailed down, it’s in someone’s hands. Tables, chairs, and beer mugs are all being used as weapons.
I’m not sure how the chaos started; all I do know is, Devil’s the only thing standing between Jacob and me getting his wish right now. Wherever he ran off to.
Standing in the middle of the entryway, I take a look over my shoulder and realize I might not want the answer to my question, but got it anyway.
It’s the shock of blond hair I spy first and then the gun. Standing at the opposite end of the hallway. Jacob aims down the barrel of his Glock. I see a muzzle flash before the wood over my right shoulder splinters. The crack of the bullet leaving the chamber never registers over the grunts and glass shatters from the end of the hallway.
“Oh, shit! Get down!” I hear myself scream and then everything hits fast forward.
What used to be a long spread of glass with large neon signs is now gaping holes, the flashing lights glitching remnants of their former ugliness. Dingy beige shades hang in tattered flutters of cloth.
Fists, chairs, ball bats fly through the air and the random thud of a large powered rifle going off reverberates through the bar. It’s so loud the sound waves penetrate my chest and jack my heart rate up to match the amount of adrenaline filling my bloodstream.
I take in the crowd but can’t spot Ares at first. But when I do, he looks like the real god of war standing in the middle of the bar. Eyes wild and muscles bulging. He swings left, right—anyone unfortunate to fall prey to his wrath crumbles to the floor. In a blink, flames engulf the back wall and lick up the sides of tables until they’ve encompassed Ares. Smoke rolls and rises so I hit the deck and do what I was taught long before gods of war, Russian traffickers, and bikers. Stop. Drop…and crawl.
I shriek when beefy arms snake around my middle and jerk me to my feet.
Pings of empty bullet shells falling to the floor and particles of wood splinters flying through the air keep my head down and body tucked behind the wall of muscle blocking my view.
Broad shoulders, flaming skull, and an aura of rage all tell me it’s one very pissed-off Russian playing human shield.
“Ares.”
He swings his head around. Gray eyes turn to impenetrable steel. “Shut the fuck up and stay down. I’ll deal with you later.”
Devil’s prophecy. Shit.
Ares wraps his digits over the lips of a table and I tuck and roll behind the slab of wood just in time for it to take several slugs down the middle. Thin wood cleaves in two. We dive for another table, this one thicker than the last but not by much.
Ares takes a knee, rounds the table, and pulls the trigger. Round after round pings off and the vibrations of heavy bodies hitting the floor feed through the palms of my hands. Hell is in my future at the joy I’m feeling as these men meet their end, but I take solace in knowing they’ll all be outside the devil’s gates before me.
“We don’t have enough men,” Ares calls out.
“No shit! We need an army!” No sooner does one hit that ground does another pop up seemingly from nowhere. “How many are on Volkov’s payroll?”
Ares’ mouth quirks a degree but I realize it’s not me he is talking to but Rage who slides in beside us, the chamber of his gun cocked back telling me he’s out of ammo.
“I’m out!” Rage yells, his face a scrunched-up version of Eastwood’s son. It’s kind of eerie at how similar the two look.
“Here.” Like we are not in the middle of a freaking shoot-out, Rage produces a phone from his pocket and punches in numbers before passing it over to Ares like some multitasking pro.
My eyes swing to a man coming in fast behind us, low light from the overheads glinting off the metal of a ball bat aiming for Ares’ head. He must have seen my wild expression because Ares pivots on a knee, aims and puts the man on the ground in less than two seconds—his lifeless eyes empty doors.
Smoke burns my eyes. Flying embers sprinkle across my shirt leaving behind little scorch marks like black stars on a white canvas. The phone Ares had pinned between his shoulder and ear clatters to the floor. I swipe it up. Sweaty palms make it nearly impossible to keep my grip on it, but I manage. “Hey, yeah sorry. Kinda busy right now. I don’t know who this is, but you’ll have to wait,” I yell.
A muzzle flash and another man, this one is in greasy jeans and with a mug no one can love falls at my feet. There is no use in trying to control my breathing or my racing heart.
“Nova, down!”
I forget about the phone, smoke, and embers. A big hand in the middle of my back shoves me to the floor and I’m suddenly under hundreds of pounds of pissed-off Russian. Above us chunks of plaster, glass, and wood rain down from where a freaking grenade goes off.
The worst part is the silence that follows. It wraps around me blocking the sounds of male grunts and guns. The only faculty working right now is my eyes and they are full of grit and dust. Through that pain I see Ares. Gun in hand. But it’s not doing any good. Too many of Jacob’s men rush us and Ares is forced to move from being my body shield to mano a mano. And the men coming for him know how to take a hit. They keep coming.
I roll. What kind of fucking crazy ass people throw a grenade! Air finally rushes back into my lungs and my hearing eases in with the sound of bullets spraying the wall behind us. If we were pinned down before, we’re in deep shit now.
Ares feeds the last two men who don’t know when to quit two bullets each.