40. Jet
JET
The rain is a godsend. A blessing. Finally. Fucking finally. That and the organ’s eerie, funeral notes mask the sounds of our attack as we take the soldiers standing just outside.
Candlelight spills through the slits of windows. It continues even as the last of the soldiers lies dead at our feet.
Cassian and Sev assess, taking a minute to form a plan.
Me?
I can’t.
Because all I need to know is that she’s in there with them. At their mercy.
I crash through the door, Cotton growling. Waiting for my order. I take in this strange scene from a fucking horror movie.
Masked men, a dozen of them. Maybe more. Soldiers everywhere. I don’t count them. Because I see her. In the midst of the chaos, I see her.
Amal kneeling in the middle of them chained to the floor.
She’s wearing that terrible dress. It’s filthy now drenched from the storm and splattered with mud. Blood smears her face, her neck, her hands.
They’ve hurt her. They’ve chained her and they’ve hurt her.
But when her eyes find mine, the world stops, the chaos around me in a freeze frame. Her mouth falls open like she can’t believe it.
“Jet!” Sev calls out in time for me to duck out of the way of the dagger hurled at me.
Cotton charges into the circle. Cloaks and masks are thrown off, weapons revealed, some pulling swords out of canes, some firepower.
The sound of bullets ricochets off the walls. There’s nothing to duck behind, nowhere to take cover as soldiers attack.
I move, stalking toward the center of the room, bullets flying around me, gun in one hand, hunting knife in the other.
I slash one man’s throat. A bullet grazes my arm.
I jerk with the hit and shoot the soldier aiming his weapon at my chest and all the while I’m moving toward her.
Eating the space between us, desperate to get to her.
The man at Amal’s side produces a dagger.
I take aim as he brings it to her throat but before I fire, Cottom slams into his chest hard enough to send him sprawling backward, his skull making a satisfying crack when it hits the floor, that knife flying out of his hand.
Her jaws close around his throat and she looks at me with her good eye.
She’s panting hard but doesn’t let go of him, nor does she clamp down and end it.
She keeps her full weight on him to keep him down and waits for the order to kill.
I give it.
She swallows the man’s scream as she rips into his throat.
“Amal!” I call out, crouching to send my gun skittering across the floor toward her.
She lunges for it, that chain catching her. But she gets it. She gets hold of the gun.
A soldier raises his arm, recovering from a bullet. But he never gets it level because I slam into him and send him crashing against the wall. I plunge my knife so deep into his gut I feel the warmth of tissue and muscle before jerking the dagger out.
I get up only to be attacked by a man wielding his own ceremonial dagger.
I whirl out of his way, but he manages to knock my knife from me.
I don’t care. I don’t need it. Two free hands is a good thing.
I catch him, sending him to the ground. I use my fists on this one.
I pound and pound and fucking pound his face until it’s a bloody pulp.
Guns go off around me, and I turn to find Amal taking aim at one, shooting. She’s a warrior, my wife. An incredible, fierce goddess.
The man drops to the floor, and she doesn’t even flinch when his blood splatters her face.
From the corner of my eye, I see two men run toward the altar. One stops, turns.
Senna. In his hand that mask. The wretched, evil mask.
He grins at me, then takes aim at Amal.
“Amal!” I call out when I see it.
I run for her, a chaos of bodies and bullets around me.
And I swear I see the pulling of the trigger and hear the release of the bullet, watch its progress through the room.
No.
No.
No!
I lunge for her, the space impossible between us.
And somehow, some way, I hurl myself overtop of her, sending her crashing to the stone floor, feeling the ripping of the bullet at my side as I slide one hand to the back of her head to cushion it from crashing hard.
The bullet sears my flesh but for a moment, a single strange moment, there is just her.
Just her in a sudden and complete silence, her pretty eyes searching mine through tears, her hands on my shoulders.
My wife.
My love.
Her blue eyes grow wider, a line between her brows, her mouth open. I touch her face, her bruised skin, her wild hair. And I smile.
In spite of all that’s going on around us, I smile.
Because she’s here. I have her. I have her and I will keep her safe.