15. Lucas
FIFTEEN
Lucas
I race down the stadium steps with Roman. His cleats are slipping on the smooth concrete, but he manages to get us down by the ice rink walls without either of us getting shot. The men he fought on the ice are long gone. He forces me in front of him, shielding my back with his body as we flee our pursuers.
I angle toward the main exit, but Roman snags my elbow and pulls me toward the team box. From there, we hurry down a dimly lit passageway to a door. We burst through into a locker room.
I race onward, but Roman barks, “Wait!”
I skid to a halt and spin wildly. Roman is locking the door. I didn’t think of that. I’m not thinking at all.
He moves my way. He touches my back. The touch means, come with me, don’t run . We walk to another door with a lighted exit sign and stop.
Roman pops the magazine from the gun he lifted from one of the guards. He does it expertly, not fumbling like I would with the unfamiliar thing. He used it expertly too. He shot several men with incredible accuracy.
As Roman started talking to me more, I tried to ask him about his life, but he always shut down. I had to stop asking.
“Were you in the military?” The question pops out. I don’t know why. It’s not the time for questions.
Roman’s eyes flick to me but return quickly to the magazine. He frowns like he’s not happy with the number of bullets. Or maybe he doesn’t like the way his hand is shaking.
“Why are you shaking so hard?”
I’m also shaking, so maybe I shouldn’t talk, but his shakiness looks different. He’s panting too, and dripping sweat. I’ve seen his post-fight aggression, but that’s not what this is. Something’s wrong with him.
Ignoring me, he slots the magazine back into the gun and rams it in with the heel of his hand.
Something’s wrong with me too because I can’t stop myself from blathering on. “Roman, you’re—”
He covers my mouth with his shaky hand. “We need a car,” he says.
Footsteps pound toward the door that Roman locked behind us. Thank god he thought to do that. Someone slams against the door. There’s muffled shouting, then the footsteps go pounding away.
“Stay here,” Roman orders as he pulls away from me and shoulders open the door to outside.
He storms out into the dark parking lot with his gun raised. As the door tries to swing shut, I catch it.
Out of sight around the side of the building, tires squeal as people flee. This parking lot, presumably for the players, is small, but there are several vehicles. A few of them are fancy cars. One is a big black van—and O’Neil is standing in front of it yelling into a radio.
“—the goddamn keys!” O’Neil’s head whips up. “Fuck!”
He drops the radio and reaches for his gun, but Roman fires first. O’Neil slams back against the van and crumples to the ground. He gasps and chokes like he can’t breathe.
After sweeping right then left, Roman tromps toward O’Neil. Shoving his gun in the back of his pants, Roman bends down to O’Neil, takes his head in both hands, and delivers a vicious twist. O’Neil’s body flops and slumps as Roman lets go. He grabs O’Neil’s gun from its holster and straightens. He scans the parking lot again, then he motions to me.
I burst through the doorway and run to his side. As I arrive, O’Neil’s radio puts out, “O’Neil! What happened? Are you—”
I’m focused on that, so when Roman shoves me down, I’m unprepared. I sprawl over O’Neil’s corpse as shots fire, both from Roman and from someone else. My arms fly over my head as several ping against the van.
“Stay,” Roman orders.
I drop my hands as he goes stalking toward a downed guard. His cleats are noisy and aggressive on the asphalt. Roman shoots the man then takes his gun and rummages in his pockets. Keys jangle. Roman scans the parking lot again before jogging back to me.
He hauls me up and pulls me around to the passenger door. He puts a gun in my hand then juggles a set of keys. He unlocks the door and opens it. I scramble inside. He slams the door shut and walks around the front of the van to the driver’s side.
When he starts unlocking the door, I scramble for the unlock button to help, but I’m too slow. Roman gets the door open first.
He climbs into the driver’s seat and slams the door. Finding himself crunched up against the steering wheel, he grabs the lever under the seat and shoves it back. He wedges a gun into the cup holder then fiddles at his feet for a second. He drops the metal cleats on the floor between us.
He starts the van and backs up. His eyes flick to me because I’m staring at him, then he focuses on his driving. He swipes sweat from his eyes as he scans the parking lot for threats. He’s still breathing in short, shallow bursts. He reaches a shaky hand behind his back and pulls another gun from his waistband. He sets it on the floor with the cleats.
At his grunt, I follow his gaze. I don’t have long to look at the black SUV that comes squealing around the side of building before Roman guns the van’s engine and goes tearing through the parking lot.
I thought I was already maxed out on adrenaline, but a fresh surge explodes through me as we race toward the exit. Roman barrels out onto a mostly empty street. It must be the middle of the night because there’s very little traffic.
A sharp turn throws me halfway out of my seat. The gun falls to the floor as I grab at the dash.
The glow of streetlights that comes through the windshield illuminates my bloody hands. I jolt at the sight, like I’ve somehow forgotten that I stabbed a man to death.
My mind jumps away from that. I scramble to retrieve the gun from between my feet, but Roman takes it from me and drops it to the floor between us.
Roman’s eyes jump between the rearview mirror and the road. He swipes more sweat from his eyes. He’s blinking a lot, still panting.
Oh my god, is he having a heart attack or something?
“Roman—”
I slam into the door as he makes another sharp turn. Tires squealing, the van careens. Roman’s wild corrections barely save us from crashing into a median.
“Roman, pull over—”
“I can’t,” he gasps. “They’re still—”
“Something’s wrong with you!”
“I fucking know that!” he shouts and makes a dangerous lane change to zoom past another vehicle.
Behind us, the SUV races to catch up. I stare at it in the side mirror for a second then whip my head toward Roman again.
He makes a gasping sound and swipes a hand across his face.
“Jesus, Roman, pull over. If you have a fucking heart attack—”
“We’re almost there. I can make it.”
“Roman—”
“I’m not letting them take you!”
I shut up because I’m making things worse. I watch the road. I watch the mirrors. Roman exits the freeway. We race down several streets to a gated neighborhood.
At least that’s what I think it is until we slam straight into the gate. As we tear along a paved drive, I realize we’re actually on a private estate. Trees tower on either side, and the black SUV comes roaring in behind us.
Ahead, lights burst on, bathing the front of a huge, fancy house and flooding the circular drive before it.
“Down!” Roman shouts.
I duck down into the footwell as he brakes hard and brings the van swinging around on squealing tires. Then he throws open his door and jumps out.
“Jesus—fuck!” I shout as I peer over the dash to see Roman marching forward, firing at the SUV as it barrels down on him.
His shots hit the windshield—and more shots come from behind him. My eyes flick to the mirror to see that people have emerged from the house.
The SUV brakes hard, skidding along the pavement to a stop. There’s a brief pause like the driver is assessing the situation. More bullets strike the SUV before it reverses abruptly and goes tearing backward along the drive.
I’m scrambling out of the van by the time the SUV makes it to the trashed gate. As soon as it’s through, Roman falls to his knees. I reach him as he pitches forward, one hand slapping to the pavement, the other still holding his gun.
People shout behind me. My head whips their way. There are three of them. Two are fully dressed, one man and one woman. Another man is wearing only a pair of sweatpants. Allof them have guns aimed at me and Roman, but their shouts of who are you and get down don’t really penetrate.
“Help!” I scream, my hands uselessly scrabbling at Roman’s sweaty body. “Help!”
The woman, dressed in black leather and with a long dark braid over her shoulder, reaches me. With shocking force, she grabs my sweatshirt and hauls me away from Roman.
Roman surges up with a roar as I’m thrown to the ground. He wheels, gun aimed at the woman, but he’s unsteady and outnumbered. The man fully clothed in jeans and a flannel shirt knocks the gun from Roman’s hand and kicks the side of his knee. Roman’s leg buckles and he slams to his knees on the pavement. The man steps to Roman’s side and aims his gun at Roman’s head. Roman sways.
“Please,” I beg, trying to crawl back to Roman only to get smashed to the ground by the woman’s boot. “ Please .”
The other man, the one who’s barefoot and wearing only black sweatpants, steps forward. He’s big and heavily tattooed. His dark hair is swept back from an intense, handsome face. He actually looks weirdly similar to—
“ Roman? ” He stares in disbelief. “Is that … fuck, is that …? Christ, Quinn, let him go.”
As Roman collapses onto his face, the tattooed man rushes forward. He drops his gun and rolls Roman onto his back.
A lot of shouting starts up. Something about a doctor. A lot of what the fuck and I don’t fucking know .
When the woman snags her phone from inside her leather jacket, I manage to crawl away from her back to Roman. The tattooed man is kneeling beside him, his fingers at Roman’s throat. He and the woman shout back and forth about what might be happening as she tries to communicate the situation to whoever is on the other end of the call.
“Give me the goddamn phone!” the tattooed man snaps, holding out his hand. When she hands it to him, he shouts into it, “His pulse is fucking racing!” Then, “I don’t fucking know!”
The tattooed man turns to me. There’s an instant of who the fuck are you in his expression, then he snaps, “What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know,” I reply. “They probably gave him something. They’ve done it before—”
“Who gave him—what do you—never-fucking-mind!” Into the phone, he shouts, “I don’t know, Isaac! Okay! Just fucking drive !”
The tattooed man drops the phone and leans over Roman again. Roman’s chest is jerking with short, sharp breaths. His eyelids are fluttering. He’s barely conscious.
“Fuck’s sake, Roman,” the tattooed man mutters, checking Roman’s pulse again. Then he gets up and says to the others, “Let’s get him inside. And you”— he wheels on me—“are gonna tell me where the hell my brother has been for four fucking years.”