Chapter 23 Brooks
Brooks
I have to admit, when I’ve thought about dying, I really never thought it would be because a Russian smuggler caught me snooping on his meeting with my father and decided to choke me to death.
And yet here we are, with me pressed against the wall and his hands wrapped around my throat, slowly squeezing until I can’t breathe and the world is starting to go fuzzy around the edges.
The house was already dark, courtesy of my father never wanting to having enough lights on, but it’s getting darker as my air is cut off.
At least I think it is.
Maybe I’m imagining that, though. Surely you start to hallucinate when you’re dying, right?
That was how I felt the last time I nearly died. I remembered everything about my life, the good and the bad, and then I thought Lucien was there with me, pulling me back from the brink.
Wait. Lucien was actually there, wasn’t he?
I roll my eyes, trying to remember, and then I see Beau. He’s emerging from a door near the kitchen and running for me, his mouth open on a shout and his hands balled into fists. Is that really him? Did I really see Lucien the last time?
Am I really seeing Beau right now?
Suddenly the Beau figment jumps and lands on the Russian who’s choking me, and the man jerks. Then this hands are gone and I can fucking breathe again. Air rushes into my lungs and with it comes anger and relief and joy and a fierce, possessive need to protect my brother.
The Russian pulls Beau off his back and throws him against the stairs, then starts toward him like he’s going to finish the job, but I’m not going to let that happen.
I leap onto the Russian’s back, screeching like a banshee, and jam my thumbs into his eyes, pushing as hard as I can.
The man screams and shakes, trying to get my off his back, but I wrap my arms around him and cling to his bulk, my thumbs still pressed into his eyes.
In front of us, Beau is getting unsteadily to his feet–Christ, he looks bad–and then charging forward.
Moments later he jumps at the Russian’s knees and takes him down.
I leap from off his back to avoid the fall and manage to land on my feet, hands out.
A hand takes mine, and when I look up I see that it’s Beau.
He’s saying something, but I can’t hear him over the roaring of the Russian on the ground.
I glance at the man, realize that he’s getting up, and yank my brother, my eyes on the door at the front of the house.
I don’t know what Beau’s saying or where he left Corinne, but we have to get the fuck out of here before that Russian gets up and comes back at us.
I don’t know where my father’s men are, either, but I suspect we’re in trouble with them, too.
We did, after all, just attack my father’s business partner, and though he and my father were fighting moments ago, I doubt Dom would have attacked him.
Before we can get to the door a bullet flies past my ear and hits the wall, and I duck and roll automatically, trying to make myself a more difficult target. More shots fly by, so I’m thinking my father’s men have found us.
Shit.
My gun and knife are both upstairs and I’m defenseless against them, and one look at Beau’s face tells me that he also doesn’t have any weapons.
We’re two stupid kids getting into things we’re not ready for, just like we’ve always been. And this time we’re facing something a lot scarier than my father’s fists.
His men come rushing down the foyer toward us, shooting as fast as they can, and I look behind them to see the Russian lumbering after them.
My father is in the doorway of his office but doesn’t look like he’s going to stop anyone.
His face is bloodied and beaten, and I doubt he’s capable of anything more than watching, at this point.
Shit.
If there was ever a time for him to pull rank and save his kids, this would be it.
Then again, he’s done more damage to me than anyone else on this earth. I would have to be stupid to expect him to save me now.
I jump to my feet and pull Beau with me, though, mind flying through our options.
Getting outside is still the best choice.
It’ll give us more space to run and hide, and we’re less likely to be trapped if we get out there.
I turn and start running for the door again, though part of my brain already knows we’re not going to make it.
The men behind us have guns, and we can’t outrun bullets, no matter how hard we try.
God, I wish I had my gun.
We start running, ducked low to the ground and trying to avoid the bullets flying around us, but within seconds my brother grunts and falls to the ground.
I drop next to him, breathless with fear, and put my hands to his back, searching for the hole that will tell me if he’s been shot.
I find it quickly in his right shoulder, near where his arm joins his shoulder, and quickly turn him over.
The bullet has come out the other side, so so it’s not in there still, but my God, there’s a lot of blood.
He’s bleeding like it hit a main artery, and I reach through my memory, searching desperately for what the major arteries are in that area of the body.
I don’t come up with anything, but I’ve also never tried to remember anatomy while I’m being shot at.
I look up and meet the eyes of one my father’s men as he lifts his gun and points it at me, and I realize that this is more what I’d expect of death. A fight with the bad guys. Men who are trying to kill me for no good reason. A bullet right to the head.
I’m furious that I haven’t had the chance to take my father down, and even more furious that he and that Russian asshole are going to win.
But there’s something deeply satisfactory about having my brother next to me right now.
I reach out and take his hand, squeezing it hard in the Morse Code we learned when we were kids.
I love you, I love you, I love you, I squeeze to him, putting everything I have into that simple motion.
Christ, I should have come home sooner. I should have called him. Written. Sent a fucking carrier pigeon.
Instead, I’d deserted him here because I was too angry at my father to come back.
He squeezes me back, then, and I grin when I realize he’s telling me the same thing he’s always told me.
It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay.
Suddenly the man who was running at us slides to a stop, his eyes wide with fear, and then turns and runs the other way. I watch him, confused, and then turn around, trying to figure out what he’s running from.
Which is when I see Lucien and Luke standing in the doorway.
Luke is holding a semiautomatic rifle, aimed at the men in front of me. And Lucien has a fucking rocket launcher resting casually over his shoulder.
And it’s so ridiculous, so very like him, that I start laughing.
This is evidently against the rules, though, because Lucien immediately frowns at me, then darts forward and picks me up off the ground.
“Are you insane?” he asks. “What are you doing sitting on the ground laughing when a man is about to shoot you?”
I have a number of answers for that, but none of them seems as important as the one I give.
“Beau’s already been shot.”
He curses softly and looks over at Luke, who’s got Beau thrown over his shoulders and is somehow still keeping pace with us.
“Careful with him,,” he mutters. “He’s been shot, evidently. Brooks, how many men are in the house?”
“I have no idea,” I say honestly. “I thought they’d left and don’t have a count on them.”
“Helpful,” he mutters.
“Excuse me, I wasn’t expecting a battle tonight,” I clap back.
His mouth quirks at that, but he immediately grows more serious. “Right. Out the service entrance, then. We have a car in the back. Let’s get the fuck out of here while no one is looking and hope no one comes after us.”