Chapter 2
Dark Angel
Fee:
We're trapped in a canyon designed for execution. Brick walls tower on one side, the boutique building on the other, the space between just wide enough for a delivery truck, or a car to block our escape. The air reeks of garbage.
Shane shouts from the mouth of the service road. He's sprinting our way, tie flapping over his shoulder, gun drawn and firing back at his pursuers. Behind him, five men give chase, guns in hand.
Cillian draws his weapon, returning fire, but the service road offers no cover. He positions himself between me and the shooters, and we start running.
Another crack splits the air. Close to me, sharp, definitive.
My body understands before my brain catches up. I kick off my heels and start sprinting barefoot, concrete rough against my skin.
This coral summer dress marks me like a target. It might as well be a neon sign screaming, "shoot here."
I grab fistfuls of the flowing skirt as it tangles around my legs, bunching the fabric up past my knees. The material fights me, but I yank it higher and sprint forward. My bare feet slap against concrete littered with broken glass and debris.
Cillian's hand presses against my back, steering me toward the far end of the service road where it opens onto the street. His touch is firm, protective, pushing me faster than my legs want to move.
The next shot finds its mark.
I hear Cillian grunt behind me, the sound torn from his chest. His footsteps falter. The steady pressure of his hand against my back disappears.
I spin around.
Shane crumples to the concrete fifty feet behind us, blood pooling beneath his body. He's not moving.
Cillian staggers beside me, red seeping through his white dress shirt, spreading across his chest like spilled wine. The crimson stain grows with each heartbeat, turning his expensive suit into something from a nightmare.
I freeze.
Everything inside me stops. My breath, my heartbeat, my ability to think beyond the blood blooming across Cillian's chest.
"Fee, fucking run!"
Cillian's voice cuts through my paralysis, rougher than I've ever heard it. He switches his gun to his left hand, his right arm hanging useless at his side, and keeps firing at the men advancing on us. His shots are wild now, unsteady, but they force our pursuers to duck behind cover.
"Get the fuck out of here!" He doesn't look at me, keeping his eyes on the shooters. "I'll cover you."
I gather more fabric in my fists, hiking the dress higher until the hem barely covers my thighs. I force my legs to move, each step sending shockwaves through my bare feet.
Behind me, Cillian fires again. The sound echoes off brick walls, mixing with shouts from our pursuers. I don't know how many bullets he has left. I don't know how long he can hold them off with a bullet in his shoulder.
I sprint faster. My lungs burn. The street ahead blurs through tears I didn't realize were falling.
A black Camaro screeches around the corner ahead, tires smoking against the pavement. It races straight toward me, engine growling like a predator.
I'm going to die crushed between bullets and a bumper. The car skids to a halt, the driver's door flying open.
Anton emerges like a dark angel, gun already drawn. His eyes find mine for a split second, cold, focused, lethal.
Anton raises his weapon and starts firing past me; each shot is punctuated by the subtle recoil through his muscular frame. His face betrays nothing, no anger, no fear, just deadly concentration.
I keep running. My body feels disconnected from my mind, like I'm watching someone else run for their life.
Anton moves toward me, still firing. He's wearing a black tailored suit with a black shirt. He looks like violence incarnate, like death in expensive Italian wool.
Another shot. I flinch, expecting an impact, expecting my legs to give out, expecting to hit the concrete. But I keep running.
Maybe I'm already hit. Maybe I just can't feel it yet.
Anton reaches me as I stumble into his arms. His free hand grabs my waist, pulling me against his chest as he fires one more time.
"Are you hurt?" His voice is rough against my ear, clinical and desperate at the same time.
I try to answer, but can't find my voice. Everything feels distant, muffled, like I'm underwater.
No more gunfire. No more shouting. Just the distant hum of traffic and my ragged breathing against Anton's chest.
I pull back, scanning the service road. Five bodies sprawl across the concrete in unnatural positions, dark pools spreading beneath them. All dead. Anton killed them all while I ran barefoot in a coral dress.
Cillian slumps against the brick wall, his white shirt now completely crimson.
Shane hasn't moved. His body lies on the concrete, motionless.
I start patting down my body, searching for bullet holes, for blood, for pain that should be there but isn't. My hands shake as I check my arms, my torso, my legs.
Nothing. No wounds. No blood.
Anton's hands catch mine, stilling my frantic search. His touch is gentle, careful.
His voice drops to barely above a whisper, softer than I've ever heard it. "We need to move. Police will be here in minutes."
Reality crashes back. Sirens. Questions. Bodies. Evidence.
"My guards." The words tear from my throat. I look toward Cillian, toward Shane's still form. "I can't leave them."
"You're not." Anton's arm tightens around my waist, guiding me toward the Camaro. "Get in the car. I'll handle this."
He opens the passenger door, his movements careful with me.
Anton's hand brushes my cheek, drawing my attention back to his face. His gray eyes search mine with intensity, with concern.
"Stay in the car. Keep the doors locked. I'll be right back."
The engine purrs beneath me as he closes my door. The automatic locks engage with a soft click, sealing me inside. The windows are tinted dark enough that I feel hidden and protected, yet I can still see everything outside.
Anton moves toward Cillian first, his gun still drawn but lowered. He crouches beside Cillian, saying something I can't hear through the glass. Cillian nods, wincing with the movement.
A blur of dark clothing cuts through my peripheral vision, sprinting past the Camaro. I recognize the movement instantly, Yuri.
He reaches Cillian in seconds, dropping into a crouch beside Anton. Their voices are low, urgent, but the glass muffles everything into incomprehensible murmurs. Anton's posture shifts slightly as he speaks, his shoulders tense with authority.
Together, they help Cillian to his feet. My guard's face contorts with pain, but he manages to stay upright, one hand pressed firmly against the spreading crimson on his chest. They move slowly, Yuri supporting most of Cillian's weight as they approach the Camaro.
Cillian looks directly at me through the windshield. His face is pale, sweat beading across his forehead, but his eyes are alert. Focused.
I hit the window button, lowering it just enough for him to see me clearly.
"Ms. Quinn." His voice is strained but steady. A professional to the end, even bleeding out in an alley.
"Thank you." The words feel inadequate for a man who took a bullet meant for me.
He nods once. His jaw tightens, and he presses harder against the wound, blood seeping between his fingers. He keeps walking past my car, with Yuri helping him.
I turn in my seat to watch them go toward a black SUV behind us. Yuri helps Cillian get into the front passenger seat.
I watch Anton run back toward Shane and crouch beside him. My stomach clenches. Shane hasn't moved since he fell. His body lies at an unnatural angle, limbs splayed across concrete stained dark with his blood.
Is he breathing? I can't tell from this distance.
Yuri appears beside Anton, carrying a stretcher; they work together, carefully moving Shane onto it.
Anton and Yuri lift the stretcher and start rushing to the SUV.
As they pass my car and for just a second, I think I see Shane's eyelids twitch, a barely perceptible movement that might have been my imagination. My desperate hope, projecting life where there might be none.
They reach the SUV, disappearing behind the open doors as they load Shane inside.
Yuri slams the rear doors shut and sprints to the driver's seat. The SUV's engine growls as it reverses, tires squealing against pavement. Within moments, it's gone.
Sirens. The sounds multiply until it seems like half the city's police force is converging on our location.
The Camaro's locks disengage with a soft click.
I hit the window button, glass sliding up as Anton yanks open the driver's door and drops into the seat. His movements are controlled but urgent, no wasted motion.
"Is Shane—" I start.
"Alive." Anton shifts into drive before his door fully closes. "Unconscious, but breathing. Yuri will get them both to our medic."
The word hits me like oxygen after drowning. Alive.
I sink back into the leather seat, my body finally registering the absence of immediate danger.
Then Anton leans toward me, his face inches from mine. He reaches across my body...for the seatbelt. His fingers brush my hip as he pulls the belt across me, the metal clasp clicking into place with finality.
His knuckles graze my collarbone as he adjusts the strap, careful not to let it cut into my neck.
Anton's eyes meet mine for just a second before he settles back into his seat and buckles up. "I need to get us out of here fast." His voice is steady, controlled. "Don't be alarmed, but this car can be rough when it's moving at full speed."
The engine roars as he slams the car into gear. My body presses against the seatbelt from the force of acceleration.
My heart hammers against my ribs—from the storm of everything happening at once.
Once we hit the cross street, he whips the wheel hard, the car pivoting violently before he punches the accelerator.
Now we leap forward, weaving through traffic as the scene of carnage shrinks in our rearview mirror. The sirens fade behind us, but their echo still rings in my ears.