Chapter 11
P eyton woke with a start, jerking into a sitting position. He twisted on Sebastian’s couch, trying to assess his surroundings. They weren’t as familiar to him since it was his first time there, but Sebastian’s presence was something that was quickly becoming familiar to him.
“Easy,” Sebastian said quietly. “Just me. You okay?”
“Shit.” Peyton ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep.”
“I might have been offended, but this court transcript would put anyone to sleep,” Sebastian said, gesturing at his laptop.
Peyton snorted as he swung his legs over the side. “Right.” He yawned and rubbed his stomach. “Do you have any food in this place or just coffee?”
“Coffee is a food group. It's right at the top, the most important section of the pyramid.”
“I thought the most important part was the bottom?” Peyton questioned. He stood and pulled Sebastian's laptop off his lap, closed it, and put it on the coffee table before taking its place.
Sebastian's mouth lifted. “Is it?”
Peyton forgot what they were talking about as he slowly unbuttoned the first few buttons on Sebastian's shirt. He slid a hand inside, feeling the warm skin of his chest. He thumbed his collarbone and then leaned down to take a taste.
Sebastian ran his fingers through Peyton's hair and then gripped tight, keeping him in place. Peyton grinned and nipped gently.
Sebastian pulled him up by his hair and kissed him. Peyton groaned and pushed down, his hardening dick straining against his pants. Sebastian tugged at the hem of his T-shirt, and Peyton lifted his arms, letting him pull it up and over his head.
Sebastian circled his insignia with his tongue before biting down on a nipple. Peyton arched into it, cradling the back of his head.
“You need to get naked.”
“So do you.”
Peyton went for his own belt as he bent and kissed Sebastian again, moaning loudly as the lust rose in his stomach.
The door burst open, and Peyton rose instantly, instinct making him reach for a weapon that wasn't there on his front. His face hardened as he took in the two men pointing guns at them. What the fuck?
“Get up, now,” one of them spat, jerking his gun at Sebastian.
When Sebastian slowly rose from the couch, Peyton subtly stepped to the side, trying to shield him.
Sebastian put a hand on the small of his back. “It's polite to knock. Guest 101,” he said acerbically.
Peyton quickly assessed the threat level. The men weren't in any kind of assault gear. No bulk that suggested explosive weaponry or even bulletproof vests. They were wearing sneakers, for fuck’s sake.
But the guns meant business. Semi-auto Ruger’s. Lethal at short and long ranges in the right hands. One shot could do enough damage at this range that even Felix—the combat medic in his former Army commando team and a close friend—would have trouble with it.
“Knock, knock,” the one on the left sneered.
“At least introduce yourselves,” Peyton said.
They were too far away for him to get close enough without getting shot.
They could try ducking behind the couch, but the bullets would just rip right through the back of it.
Both of their phones were on the coffee table, but it would take too long to grab for one; by the time they did, they'd be dead.
Even if the men were terrible shots, Peyton wasn't going to risk it. Even the worst shots got lucky.
“Hear that, Errol, he wants us to introduce ourselves,” the same one mocked.
Errol laughed darkly. “This ain't no dinner special, kid, so sit the fuck down; we aren't here for you.”
“No.” Peyton glanced between them as he subtly stepped even further in front of Sebastian. They had no idea who he was and clearly didn't recognise the tattoo on his chest. Their first, and last, mistake.
“Then you die too. Everyone I’ve sent has failed, but you know what they say; if you want something done, then do it yourself.”
“So you’re the one that orchestrated this,” Peyton said darkly.
“Why does anyone have to die?” Sebastian asked.
“Because you wouldn't do as you were told!” Errol burst out.
“Excuse me?” Sebastian said incredulously. “Because we wouldn't do as we were told? What the hell does that mean?”
Peyton reached behind himself and squeezed Sebastian's arm, trying to silently tell him to shut the fuck up. The last thing they needed was a stray bullet being fired because someone got riled up.
“Not him, you! You wouldn’t do as you were told!” Errol said, waving his gun at Sebastian.
Peyton tensed, keeping a close eye on his trigger finger. It was too close to the trigger for comfort. It didn't look like anyone had taught him gun safety. He was the kind of guy that Peyton would have watched during training with live rounds in case the idiot shot his foot off.
“Shut it.”
“But Dane!”
“I said shut it.”
Errol growled and aggressively pointed his weapon at Sebastian, as though it were his fault that he was getting a verbal dressing down. “Watch your mouth,” he told Sebastian angrily.
A short fuse. Just what they needed. And he was too close to the trigger to risk going anywhere near him. Dane, however, was a little more relaxed, a little looser. A little too cocky. His reaction time would suffer because of it.
“It's hard to follow an instruction when no instruction was given,” Sebastian said dryly. “A note or something would have been nice.”
“We did send you a note,” Dane said calmly. “It was in the form of a former client of yours. Didn't you recognise him?”
“Wait… you left that body as a warning?” Sebastian said incredulously. “That's not a note! How was I supposed to know it was even for me? How did you think I was going to figure that out?”
“Because you defended him!” Errol said, his voice elevating. He was getting too twitchy, and Peyton didn't like any of this.
“I defend a lot of people; it’s kind of my job,” Sebastian said. “Them ending up dead at my feet doesn’t tell me anything except that I should start shopping around for my own lawyer.”
Peyton decided that they were going to have a serious talk about how Sebastian should conduct himself during hostage situations. Spoiler alert: this wasn't it.
“You were supposed to stop poking your nose in it! You were supposed to let that traitor rot, not get him out!”
“You really should have left a note; that’s a lot to remember.”
“What was the warning for?” Peyton asked.
He tilted his head a fraction, checking out the corner of the coffee table.
With enough force, maybe he could bring it down and get the leg as a weapon.
It looked too sturdy, though. Sebastian couldn't have bought cheap, shitty furniture to make it easier for him?
“Weren't you just listening? He got Warren out! That traitor sold us out. Whatever he told your friend is going to the grave with him.”
Sebastian burst out laughing. “He didn't tell me anything! That's what this is about? You think I know something? About what? You fucking moron.”
A muscle twitched in Peyton's jaw. If he died here, it would be all Sebastian's fault, and Peyton would haunt him.
Even if he was a ghost too, Peyton was sure an exception about whether you could haunt a living or dead being could be modified.
Anyone would take his side in this situation, he was sure.
The easiest thing to do would be to make sure they both got out alive, he supposed.
Sebastian made a weird noise and then said quietly, “Oh my god, Grady was right. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.”
Peyton could see it in Dane's eyes the second he decided he was done listening to any of this. Peyton hooked his ankle around Sebastian's and tripped him backward so that he was a harder target to hit if someone fired, and then he surged forward.
Peyton grabbed the muzzle of the rifle and jerked it up as hard as he could, breaking Dane's nose with a satisfying crack. He wrenched the gun from Dane's slack hands and shot Errol point-blank in the forehead before the guy could recover from all the sudden movement.
A heavy force slammed into him from the side, and he was tackled to the ground. The gun slipped from his hands, and he rose quickly, head-butting Dane. The responding outraged cry came right before something sharp cut across Peyton's cheek.
Fuck.
Peyton twisted, reaching for Dane's wrist and the blade he was trying to gut Peyton with. Dane pulled back violently as he tried to rise to his feet and get away.
A red-hot pain lit up Peyton's arm, and the grip he had on Dane instantly weakened. Peyton ignored the pain as he pulled his knee up and then kicked Dane in the face with as much force as he could muster, making him fall backwards.
“Don't fucking move!” Sebastian barked out.
A terror that felt so much worse than the echoes of pain drifting up and down his arm went through Peyton when he saw that Sebastian had picked up the gun and was pointing it at Dane.
“Careful,” Peyton said quietly. Guns weren't toys, and in an amateur's hands, they were far more dangerous to the person holding them than anyone else.
Even if by some miracle Sebastian fired and hit his target, taking a life left a scar that never healed. Peyton refused to allow him to carry that.
Dane's face was covered in blood, but there was a healthy dose of fear in his eyes.
Enough that Peyton felt confident in taking a moment to scramble to his feet.
His left arm was basically useless at this point.
He was sure he'd dislocated something. Not fully, but enough that the ache wouldn't go away unless he did something about it.
And too much for him to hold any kind of rifle. Peyton bent and searched Errol, hoping that he had—there. A handgun. He pulled it from the ankle holster and checked. He wasn't surprised to find that it was loaded, and the safety was off.
He didn't normally shoot with his right hand since he was left-handed, but at this close range, he didn't need a shit ton of accuracy.