Nine Ella #2
Gunfire cracks the night and stitches the air with a hard rhythm.
I scream before I can stop myself. Justice folds over me, covers my head with his jaw, and keeps his arm firm across my back.
The driver throws another curse and rides the gas, then the brakes.
My teeth rattle. The door shivers near my hip. The window haze blooms and spreads.
Gunfire patters.
Glass shatters.
Justice slides me onto the floor. “Keep down.” He kicks his door open while pulling a pistol from his side. Cold grit bites my bare knees. The car reeks of oil and cordite. My mouth tastes of metal. I press my spine to the seat base as fear crawls up my throat and tries to choke me.
He leans out with the gun. “Shoot everyone, Rick,” he mutters as the driver shoves his door wide and rises into the frame. Glass breaks again and rains over my arms. The street noise tilts into a roar. My ears ring so hard I can’t hear my own breath.
Gunfire erupts everywhere. The rhythm is too fast and too even. “They have automatic weapons. You only have a handgun,” I yell.
Justice drops into a crouch, braces, and fires three sharp shots.
The sound multiplies. A new wash of bullets tears across the block from two sides, then another answers from the rear.
If we’re close to Malice Media, there should be guards moving right now.
With Thorn out of town, Justice is the head of the Irish mob in this slice of the world.
What would anyone be thinking to hit him here?
My hands shake so hard my fingers ache. I press my palms to my temples and swallow down panic.
A lone voice cuts through everything and shouts, “Give us Rendale!” The words land wrong and cold.
I look up and catch Justice in profile as he pivots, fires twice, and resets.
A yelp breaks from the dark. Metal echoes.
Something heavy drops out of sight. More gunfire surges around us and drives me lower.
I cover my head and clamp my elbows to my skull.
The hood buckles with a deep, torn sound. Heat punches through the vehicle.
Justice leans in. “Dar fia. The thing’s going to explode.”
The words punch through my gut and open a pit under my ribs. I reach for him.
He grabs my wrist and yanks me into the rain, then shoves me behind his body so he takes the line of fire. My bare feet slide on glass. My stomach lurches. The night tastes burnt and wet.
I look past him toward the front of the car and see bodies on the pavement, sprawled in angles that don’t move. The strobe of muzzle flash keeps lighting them and erasing them. Gunfire still erupts from every direction. My heart hammers so hard it hurts.
He jerks his head. “We’ll move closer to that brick building and duck down out of sight.
In the alley.” He still sounds calm. How the fuck does he sound calm?
I make myself small behind his body and let him cover me, his arm steady as he fires in controlled bursts.
We angle for the building. The sidewalk is wet from the unrelenting rain.
My pulse runs hard enough to blur the edges of my sight.
His body jerks.
“Justice,” I gasp.
He drops to one knee.
“Justice.” I grab the collar of his button-down and haul him toward the wall, feeling exposed in the hospital gown.
Heat leaks through his shirt and coats my palm.
A man cuts in from the curb and sprays rounds past us toward the truck behind, protecting us.
“Down.” I shove Justice flat as another burst hits the street and bites stone from the curb.
“I’m fine.” He looks more pissed than hurt, but blood blooms across his white shirt. It’s deep red and keeps spreading.
Another man rushes up with scars laddered across his face. “How bad?”
“Shoulder,” Justice murmurs, and he glances across his forearm. I edge into the mouth of the alley and press to the brick, trying to breathe. “Stay put,” he orders, and I nod while my legs fold.
I crouch and pull myself tighter. The concrete is cold on my bare skin.
Gunfire ripples up the sidewalk between us and I yelp and duck farther into cover.
The air shakes. Grit sprays my cheek. Justice sits up and both men return fire in a clipped, controlled rhythm.
Casings tinkle on the pavement. Someone cries out across the street and then stops.
How many bullets do they have? My throat closes. I count breath in fours and fail on three. The alley smells of wet cardboard and bleach. A drain gurgles. Sweat stings my eyes. I wipe it with the back of my hand and smear dirt across my face.
I freeze and then really look around. I’m in an alley. No headlights. No footsteps. No one’s pushing in on this line. Finally, my instincts take over. I pivot on my heel, jump up, and run.
“Ella,” Justice bellows from the curb, voice hard enough to make me want to stop, but I don’t.
I’ve been in survival mode since my dad died so many years ago. I clear a pile of garbage bags and my bare foot slips on a wet label. I ignore the pain. A rat scurries from under a crate and vanishes between bins. I keep moving, my lungs burning from the cold.