Chapter 41 Cybil
Cybil
Dallas, Texas
Monday night
The sound of the gunshot rings in my ears. Or maybe that’s the blood rushing to my head. Ben’s body disappears over the edge
of the elevated slab floor—half built and open to the drop below—and the silence that follows is worse than the blast itself.
I shot him. I shot Ben.
I don’t breathe. I can’t.
The gun is heavy in my hand, the smell of cordite clinging to the air like static. This is not okay. This was not part of
the plan. This was—
“Dad!”
Sebastian’s scream cuts through the fog in my brain. I spin just in time to see him dive for his father—a blur of motion—and
then another shot cracks the air. Mr. Edmond falls backward, a thud against concrete. Sebastian collapses over him with a
sharp guttural sound.
Rook whips the gun toward me. I don’t blink. I run.
I dart behind a pallet stacked with drywall—splinters and dust blooming around me as another bullet ricochets off the steel beam overhead.
My foot catches on a stray length of rebar, and I go down hard, hands scraping against the concrete.
The gun skitters out of my grip, sliding somewhere behind me.
I twist to grab it, but another shot cracks through the air, too close.
I scramble the rest of the way behind cover, heart slamming, lungs burning, fingers still twitching from the weapon I no longer
have. Am I really in a freaking shootout?
A grunt pulls my attention. I peek around the corner and am relieved to see Sebastian moving. He’s clutching his arm, blood
darkening his sleeve. Ramirez is nowhere in sight, but Rook is closing in, gun raised. He’s going to finish them off and I
have nothing. No gun. No plan. Just a whole lot of adrenaline and very questionable judgment.
My gaze skims the construction site. Scattered tools. Buckets of nails. PVC pipe. And there—a bright red fire extinguisher,
still strapped to a column a few feet away. Close enough to reach if I’m fast.
I take a breath. “Please don’t die, please don’t die,” I whisper to myself.
Then I run.
I vault over a coil of extension cords, grab the extinguisher with both hands, and yank. It comes loose with a jerk that nearly
dislocates my shoulder. Rook doesn’t see me until it’s too late. I swing the extinguisher like a bat and catch him full force
in the ribs. The impact rings through my arms. He cries out, stumbles—gun dropping to the concrete.
Rook staggers, clutching his side. “You little—”
I yank the pin from the extinguisher and squeeze the handle. A blast of white foam hits him square in the face. He chokes,
swears, stumbles back—temporarily blinded.
“Come on.” I drop the extinguisher with a clatter. “We have to move. Now.”
Mr. Edmond is conscious—stunned, wide-eyed, but not hurt. I reach for him.
Sebastian groans, trying to push upright, his good hand pressing hard against his bleeding arm. He’s pale, sweating, but his
jaw is set with sheer determination.
“I’ve got him,” he grits out, shifting to help his father.
“Now is not the time for your ego,” I mutter, looping an arm under Edmond’s shoulder as Sebastian does the same on the other side.
Together we hustle him toward a stack of concrete blocks.
I spot the gun, tucked against a cracked paint bucket and someone’s abandoned thermos.
Then Rook hits me. I don’t see him, just feel him, a wall of rage and limbs as we go down hard against the concrete. My shoulder slams into the ground, the gun skidding
out of reach again. We grapple, elbows and fists and gritted teeth. I manage to land a knee in his stomach, but he recovers fast, slamming me
back against a steel beam.
“You’re not going to win this one,” he snarls.
I glare up at him. “You’d be amazed what I can accomplish when I’m ticked off.”
He tries to wrap his fingers around my throat. I claw at his hands, fighting against his grip. Sebastian charges into view,
swinging a pipe like a one-armed knight. The blow knocks Rook sideways, long enough for me to suck in a breath.
But Rook is like a cockroach that won’t die. He grabs Sebastian’s injured arm and slams him into a support post. Sebastian
groans, slumps.
I crawl toward the gun and twist just in time to see Rook looming toward me. My eyes flick up. A rope is tied haphazardly
around a bundle of metal framing bars suspended from a crane hook about fifteen feet above him. I aim and pull the trigger.
The pulley snaps, sending the bars crashing down and burying Rook in a tangle of steel and dust.
I wait to see if he stays down because, you know, cockroaches. When he doesn’t move, I scramble to Sebastian. He’s groaning
but conscious.
“I’m okay,” he rasps. “The laptop?”
I spin to check. “It’s gone.”
So is Ramirez.
Sebastian slumps against the beam, chest heaving. “Go.”
I apply pressure to his wound. “I’m not leaving you—”
“We’ll be fine.” Mr. Edmond is at my side now, and he takes my place, gently pressing his hand on his son’s injury. Sebastian
winces but continues. “If he gets away with that laptop, none of this matters.”
“He’s right,” Mr. Edmond says. “Go—I’ve got him.”
I give them a tight smile, then spin toward the stairwell. And run.