Chapter 18 #2
“The elevator doesn’t stop there because they’re refurbishing, and the owners don’t want workmen sharing the elevator space with guests,” I interject. “Four men is enough with only one entrance and exit.” I wait for Colt to disagree, and he doesn’t. “Can I continue?”
“Yes.” He scowls, folding his arms.
I finish giving Victor instructions, and as Lewis, Colt and I take the elevator upstairs, Colt finally speaks.
“I’m used to giving orders.”
I take my gloves off. “There’s an apology in there somewhere.”
Lewis looks ready to combust with amusement. Colt Harland, Ghost, my old rival, rolls his neck. “I’m sorry.”
The doors ding open, and as I pass him, I smile. “Good boy.”
Lewis howls out a laugh, heading to his room, and I feel particularly smug as Colt follows me into mine. I’ve grown used to living mainly out of my suitcase, so I’m almost packed within twenty minutes. Colt waits by the door.
“So … who was the guy by the house?”
I lean out of the en suite, twisting my metal hairpin through my hair to pull it away from my face. “Who?”
“You were talking to someone before the gunshots.”
Right. The teacher with the question mark kids. “Just a dad. Why? Do you think he was involved?”
He shakes his head. “No, just—” He’s cut off by his phone ringing. “I’ll be one minute.” He disappears back into the living room, and I place my makeup bag in my open suitcase on the bed.
My phone is on the pillow, and I tap my leg in a quick rhythm.
Should I call Ranger?
Things are beyond tense between us at the moment, but surely an attempt on my life is something he should know about? If Spider is coming for me, he’s likely going to try to hurt Ranger, too. He should know this is all happening.
As I reach for the phone, sprinkles of warmth spatter against my neck and shoulders. The rich smell of iron fills the air, and I freeze, a shudder running through me. Holding my breath, I turn.
Colt is behind me, one hand gripping the back of a man’s neck, the other hand holding a knife buried in the stranger’s throat. The man’s eyes are wide, his lips parted as rivets of blood spill down the front of his dark clothes and onto my shoes.
The closet is open, so whoever this person is must have been in there, waiting for me. Watching us. Listening. Waiting for the time to strike.
Colt gently lays the man down and straightens, taking my hand. He hovers a blood-covered finger by his lips to silently request I don’t speak, and I nod numbly as I grab my phone, letting him guide me to the door.
Instead of going to the exit, he opens the adjoining door to Lewis’s room. Lewis is zipping up his bag, and when he sees Colt’s hand, he immediately looks at me.
“Are—”
Colt shakes his head, and Lewis stops speaking. I close the adjoining door behind us, just as another sound tiptoes down my spine.
Footsteps. Someone is walking down the hallway. Quickly moving. A lot of them. Too many.
My heart thunders in my chest, sweat joining the blood on the back of my neck, and we stand on the far side of the room, facing the door as the footsteps come to a stop. Colt takes out his gun. Lewis does, too.
“The moment you can run, you run,” Colt says to me.
I shake my head, my gaze fixed on the doorhandle as I take out my own gun. “Nope.”
“Denver—”
“I’m not a damsel, Colt,” I say. “I’ve survived for a reason.”
“This isn’t about you being a damsel. You have no idea what they’ll do to you if they take you to Spider.” He searches my face, brow furrowed. “Promise me you’ll run.”
I don’t have time to answer. The first shot blasts through the door handle, the metal doorknob loosening.
More shots break the hinges, the metal clanging into the room.
In response, Colt fires three shots. The wood splinters in a tight group, but it’s only seconds between the last bullet landing and the door being kicked through, the heavy wood thudding onto the carpet.
We fire at any movement. Bullets whip by and Colt’s arm snatches around my waist, our bodies meeting as we continue shooting. He doesn’t loosen his grip on me. If anything, it tightens, even when the adjoining door to my room bangs open again and we’re joined by Charlie’s men.
Men in ski masks filter into the room. It’s a mash of alarming sensations—the black masks, the spritz of red against pretty wallpaper, the gunshots tearing through a quiet winter evening, the haze of gunpowder.
I shoot anyone I don’t know, my shoulders relaxed, my palm cradling the butt of the gun, the index finger of my other hand squeezing the trigger with deliberation. The kickback tingles, gold casings spitting across the carpet.
“Victor is by your door. Go, now,” Colt says to me. “Lewis, go with her.”
I don’t know how I even hear him. My ears are ringing, and my senses are assaulted as Lewis takes my arm and leads me away.
“What about you?” I call out to Colt, but my voice doesn’t travel over the shouts and bullets.
Lewis and I follow Victor out of the door to my room, and to my right are bodies and more masked men.
Victor and Lewis take out four more of them, and I run for the elevator, jabbing the button with a shaky hand.
Sweat pumps out of me, my sweatshirt sticking to my skin, and I peel it off, tossing it aside, my T-shirt underneath almost soaked through with sweat.
The numbers of the elevator climb higher. I rest my hand against the wall, heaving in breaths, droplets of sweat landing on my shoes as I focus on the floor.
I’m okay. I’m fine. Colt will be fine, too.
But what if he’s not?
I left him in a room of bloodshed, clearly outnumbered. He could die. I’d never see him again, and neither would Holly. Panic shoots through my veins like lightning under my skin, and I look at Victor and Lewis.
I have to go back.
The elevator doors open. I look toward my room, where Lewis and Victor continue to hold off men.
Lewis meets my eye, panic overtaking his usual calm. “Denver!”
A strong hand grips my throat and pulls me into the elevator with such force that my feet almost leave the ground.
My body slams into the wall, the metal railing colliding with my stomach and smashing any air out of me.
I slump to the ground.
My lungs are deflated, my body panicked. I stare into the metal flooring of the elevator, mouth opening and closing in a fruitless attempt to find air.
“Denver Luxe,” the man says, his voice throaty, like he smokes too many cigarettes. “He said I could have fun with you first. Damaged goods mean you’re a fighter.” His lips are near my ear. He doesn’t smell like cigarettes or sweat. He smells clean. Almost fresh. “They like it when you fight back.”
I can’t breathe. Can’t move. My fight or flight has adrenaline flooding my body so intensely that my bones feel close to rattling.
But I can think.
I grip my watch, squeezing the small, silver button on the edge—pepper spray squirts into his face. He jolts back, alarmed, his back slamming into the closed doors.
My eyes immediately start watering. My nose feels like it’s been shoved into minty bleach. I cough, squeezing my eyes closed even though I know it won’t do a damn thing to help. My attacker is subdued.
But so am I.
I try to get to my feet just as his boot lands in my ribs. Any air that I’d finally pulled into my lungs is knocked out again. Lessons with Lewis rush through my memory.
The seconds that matter, the ones you waste reacting, are the ones that stand between you and survival.
My hands shoot out and I grab his ankle, yanking hard.
I can’t see, but neither can he, so if I keep hold of him and knock him off balance, I’ll have some kind of advantage.
A bang tells me I’ve managed something, but I don’t know what.
He swears, and a cold breeze must mean the elevator doors have opened.
I try to open my eyes, but there’s haze over everything. Shapes are muddled and spread across each other, but I can see a space of darkness between what I assume is the silver of the elevator doors. I leap for it, stumbling over my attacker, my knees meeting the ground.
Are we in the lobby? I can’t hear people speaking. And there don’t appear to be any lights, either.
“No, you fucking don’t—”
I scream as he grips my hips and yanks me away from freedom. I kick out, holler, yell at the top of my lungs. I don’t know what I’m screaming, but I scream over and over and—
It feels like a brick slams into my jaw. Pain jolts through my face, blood fills my mouth, and my back slumps and meets the ground.
“So, what’s the end goal?” I jump up and down, excited for my first lesson with Lewis.
“Escape.”
I tut. “You mean fight.”
“No, escape,” Lewis says. “You hurt, you run. No sassy one-liners. No hanging around. You do what you have to, you free yourself, and you get the hell out of there.”
I huff. “Fine. And how do I get out of there?”
“Weapons.”
“An ideal scenario.”
Lewis smiles at me. “Everything can be a weapon, Denver. You’re a weapon. Your fingernails, your thumbs in his eyes, your teeth. You may not always have a gun, but you always have you.”
Me, and …
The man is straddling me. Speaking. On the phone, I think. I blink, my eyes still painful, my body protesting as I reach for my hair.
“I’ll bring her down.”
One last bit of energy. One last sliver of fight.
Giving up isn’t an option.
Weakness is a bullet.
I grip his shirt and pull myself up, my metal hairpin in my hand, and ram it into the general direction of his throat. I pierce skin, and the sound he makes tells me I at least got his windpipe.
That’ll do.
Now fucking run, Denver.
I shove him, a sickening wet whistle leaving his throat as I stumble by him and into the elevator. I’m on my knees, frantically pressing whatever buttons I can feel. The doors close.
The tears only make my eyes sting more, but I let them out. I slump against the mirrored wall and sob, heaving in painful breaths, my jaw aching, my ribs throbbing.
I did it. Messily. Painfully. But I fought back, and I ran, and I hope Lewis will be fucking proud of me, even if I am crying like a baby.
God, I hate this life. I hate that this happens. I hate that I’m once again going to be nursing bruises and injuries, that another painful memory is stacked on the others, and more will follow.
It’s exhausting. It’s so fucking exhausting.
I don’t realize the elevator hasn’t moved until the doors open again.
My vision is clearing enough to see the man standing over me, the hairpin protruding from his throat.
He holds himself up with a hand against the railing, and I don’t need to be able to see his features clearly to feel his rage.
He rattles in a few breaths before saying, “Now I’m really going to hurt you. ”
Hurt me. Take me. Use me. Sell me.
My body feels like a dead weight, my muscles unwilling to cooperate when I try to move, to fight one last time. I’m stuck to the floor, my eyes begging to close. I’m tired. Too fucking tired.
Bang.
Blood spits across glass. A thud shakes the elevator car. My ears split with the sound, and if I had any energy left, I’d cover them.
“Del,” Colt whispers, cupping my face. I try to blink away the blur, but it doesn’t work. I think he kisses my cheek. I know he lifts me into his arms. “I’ve got you.”
Someone’s got me.
He’s got me.