57. Trips
Chapter 57
Trips
T he haze of my rage hovers just out of reach, the need to keep Clara safe the only thing stopping me from pummeling those assholes until their shells of meat and bone are nothing more than canned dog food smeared on the blacktop. Watching Clara as we load the goon squad into the van, I keep myself present for her. I stop myself for her.
Keeping her in my line of sight, I catch the moment color settles in her cheeks.
She’s back. What will it take for me to get there too?
I’m not there yet. I slam the head of the goon who grabbed her into the running board for an extra-special concussion as RJ and I swing him into the van.
“Sorry,” I say—to RJ for the sudden shift in weight. Not to the goon. If Clara didn’t need me, I would still be wailing on the motherfucker.
He touched her. He had his hand under her goddamn skirt .
Taking out four guys in less than ten minutes with a mad sprint in the middle should have made me more Zen or some shit, like Jansen on a good day.
But right now, the only thing keeping that bastard alive is that Clara needs him for her pseudo-plan. So a second concussion is the best I’m going to do—for now.
Clara leans over RJ’s mic, Walker running to the front of the van, wheels screaming as we rocket out of the alley, the sirens singing in the distance. God. This is not the white-collar crime I fucking signed us up for. Clara’s eyes barely focus on the monitors as she clears her throat. “Jansen? Where are you at? Your carriage is en route.”
There’s a grunt. “Umm. I’ll be there.”
“God-fucking-damn-it, Jansen,” I growl.
“I would like to see you,” there’s another grunt, “crawl backwards,” there’s a whistle of metal that makes my heart stop, followed by the silence of a large, empty room, “through an air vent, Trips,” he whispers.
“Just be ready, Jansen,” Clara says, a small shiver coursing up her spine.
RJ sees it, settling a hand on the small of her back.
We all heard what the goon said. There’s a reason RJ let me smash the bastard’s head a third time when we finally got him onboard.
She turns to him, blinking twice. “Can you make sure we don’t show up on the cameras at the front of the museum?”
He presses a kiss to her arm, the only place available from his chair. “I’ll get all the ones I can.”
Then she turns to me .
Her dark eyes are hazy. Right now, murdering that asshole rapist at my feet would be a mercy. “Trips, we need to make it look like the gorillas had a falling out, a fight.”
I hold out a hand, and she takes it, her fingers arctic against my own. “I can do that,” I say.
She plucks a small black portfolio from the goon who has his fucking pants undone. The strap catches, so I lift his dead weight so she can yank the bag away, then drop him back onto the floor, the bang like butter on a burn. Blood is seeping out of the fists and nose of another guy, leaving her to scoot closer to me to keep her boots clean. Unzipping the case, she stares at the original Rubens.
I like Walker’s better. His felt more alive than this one.
The van slams to a stop, Clara steadying herself against me, and I want to lock her away, to keep her from ever ending up in another situation like the one she just put herself into.
With a nod of thanks, she sticks her head into the cab, taking a pair of gloves from Walker before snatching up a weird canvas covered in fucking computer wires.
She throws open the back of the van. “Chop chop, boys. Do what Trips says,” she says, a swagger in her step.
But I know it’s fake. It’s survival, not sass.
She races up the steps, leaving the three of us to haul the goons out, the sirens inching closer.
The snow tumbles out of the fucking clouds, making the ground slick, but covering our prints.
One, two, three goons on the sidewalk, a crash from the steps making my heart freeze.
A sleek silver Ducati comes tumbling down the stairs, the other three still perched a few feet above the street. Clara shoves another over as I race to the bushes to find the fourth guy almost awake.
Perfect fucking timing.
I slam my fist into his face as Jansen leaps out of the broken glass at the front of the museum, dancing in front of me, his grin certifiable. “Are you sure you won that fight? How can you see out of that eye? Need a hand?”
I notch my chin at the guy’s feet while noticing the ache in my cheekbone and my knuckles for the first time. Jansen scoops up the other half of the guy, then lets out a miserable whimper as we pass the destroyed bikes. He’s not wrong. It’s brutal. She’s brutal. A fragile disaster in the making.
Clara tilts her head, taking in the scene, then snatches the cable-covered canvas off the ground next to the bikes, rushing past us. She tosses the ugly-ass piece of trash Walker made just inside the entryway, then bolts back to the van.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Jansen and I drop the last guy next to the toppled bike.
The sirens are shrill, so close I can taste the danger. Yanking off his jacket, Jansen sweeps out some of our footsteps, at least muddling what happened here tonight.
“I need gloves, then get in,” I tell Jansen as he reaches me.
Tossing me a pair of fine nitrile gloves that are two sizes too small, I check the scene as I squeeze my aching hands into them. It’s chaos. It’ll have to be enough.
Once everyone’s in the van, the sirens screaming from maybe two blocks away, I yank the gun from the bush goon’s holster, marching over to the would-be rapist.
“Ears,” I yell at the van, Jansen immediately pressing Clara to his chest, covering the other side of her head with his palm .
The rage roaring, I breathe deep. It’s time to risk unchaining the animal inside of me, to give it a chance to do what it does best.
Maim. Destroy. Kill.
The full fucking clip empties with percussive bangs into the molester’s motherfucking cock as a smile twists across my face. My beast roars, licking at my soul, begging to do more, to take more, to feed it blood and death.
One glance at the van, though, Clara’s dark eyes frozen on the gun in my hand, forces me to tamp it down. I push the beast back, locking it deep inside. Slipping the gun into another goon’s hand, I barrel back to the van, slamming the door as we peel away from the curb. Clara’s stunned expression mixes with the bitter scent of gunpowder and the ringing in my ears.
One thing’s for sure: that fucker isn’t going to be forcing himself on any girl in a dark alley ever again.
He’s not dead.
But I bet he’ll wish he was.