“Sounds like a great plot. How did I ever miss seeing it before?” Again, Daniel’s all sarcasm and wit. It’s like the more dangerous things get, the punchier his humor gets. He ducks low, which surprises me, and quietly gestures for me to do the same.
I nod, and it occurs to me that our conversation might be a cover to distract our shooters . . . which means they’re closer than ever. Which makes me even more nervous. “It’s full of blow jobs, too.” I lie to see if he’s paying attention. “Lots and lots of blow jobs.”
“Sounds like my kind of movie now,” he says idly. Then, whip fast, he rushes out the front door and confronts the men trying to kill us.
I hear a gunshot go off, something cracks like pottery smashing, and then I see Daniel turn and fire his gun at something out of my line of vision.
Once.
Twice.
A body slumps to the ground.
It’s a blur of motion, it happens so fast. I stare at the dead man at Daniel’s feet, his neck at an odd angle. Daniel fires one more shot, puts a hand to his side, and fires one more time. There’s a thump nearby, and Daniel grunts, then holsters his gun. “We’re good. You can come out now.”
Come out? I haven’t even had time to think about firing my gun. In a daze, I get to my feet, noticing that one of the bullets struck inches above my head. If I’d been standing, I’d be dead.
“Come on,” Daniel says. “We don’t want to be here in case their buddies come back.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I rush to his side, stepping over the dead man at his feet as Daniel casually picks up one of his shoes and frowns at the bullet hole in the toe. He shoves them on as I look around for the other dead man. There, a short distance away, with a perfect bullet hole in the center of his forehead.
Jesus. Daniel moved so fast.
He takes me by the arm since I’m not moving fast enough, and we leave the grocery behind, heading back into the slums. Daniel looks over at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I’m still dazed, at his speed more than anything. I wanted to help, and I was useless. Less than useless. For the first time, I’m starting to realize what Daniel has been saying. Not only is my life in danger when I go with him, but I’m putting him in danger, too, because he has to watch for me. It’s not a good feeling.
“You still got that grenade?” He reaches into one of the side pockets of my flak jacket and pulls it out, and my eyes widen. That explains what hurt my ribs, though I wouldn’t have belly flopped if I’d have known I was belly flopping on top of a live grenade. Maybe that was why he didn’t tell me.
“What’s it for?” I ask him and glance around. “Are there more guys?”
“Nah. We’re going to send a message to our buddies.” He pulls the pin and pitches the grenade like a baseball into one of the windows of the old grocery.
“What’s the message?” I ask as Daniel grabs my arm and we start walking away again.
Two seconds later, there’s a loud boom and debris rains down. He looks over at me, boyish with glee. “Our message is, ‘Yippee ki-yay, motherfuckers.’”
“Predictable,” I tell him, but I grin until he winces and clutches his ribs again. Then I realize . . .
Daniel’s been shot.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DANIEL
“Are you hurt?” she asks.
“You offering to play nurse?” I wiggle my eyebrows lasciviously. “I love that uniform. I think it’s the white shoes.”
“Would you be serious for one minute?” She tugs at my shirt, and I turn my head to hide a wince. So I got shot; since I’m upright and able to walk, it must’ve winged me. I’ll need a little alcohol and superglue, and it’ll be fine. The most urgent thing is to get Regan to a safe house.
“Come on, let’s find a nice place where you can feel me up later. When we have more privacy. I’m not into public shows.” Adrenaline’s pumping hard throughout my body. If she’d been willing, I’d have taken her on the floor of the grocery.
She rolls her eyes but follows. “I don’t think you’re being funny right now.”
“When do you ever think I’m being funny?” I press my hand against my waist to stanch the wound because I’m leaving a trail of blood behind me like bread crumbs. I hope this doesn’t end in us getting shoved into an oven. “I’m curious. I want to analyze my jokes so I can get more laughs per words in the future.” That sounded like something my sister would say, and I allow myself a small chuckle. Regan doesn’t realize it, but I’d have suffered a lot more wounds than a slice through my side to get that information.