16. Maeve #3
We’re a practiced unit, jumping into action.
Splitting apart, I take one corner, he the other, and wait for the bullets to begin.
The assassins don’t waste time, spraying them across the room like a hose of water.
As the counter dents and smashes, the wood splinters.
The computer screen crashes, dropping beside me, nicking my arm.
Panting, I press two fingers to the gash. It’s nothing major, but if it had fallen on my head…
Killian growls under his breath, glaring at me—like it’s my fault.
“Instead of blaming me, be useful. Have a plan?”
“Other than kill them for hurting you?” His upper lip curls. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“Fine.” I nod once. “What about drills?”
The runners in the clan were all kids growing up. My father used them because they were easy to replace. They didn’t take much for food, and they were eager. But Killian and I were under Ferguson’s roof—we were expected to be better. So, we practiced drills with the older runners and soldiers.
The shooting exercises—not unlike what police recruits experienced from target shooting, surprise attacks, and disarming an enemy—were intense. Meant to heighten our reaction time, they taught us basic skills we would need in a gun trade. We were often paired together and forced to work as one.
We hated it. And because neither of us liked the other, we made it into a competition. The better shot bought ice cream. When we got older, it was booze.
But because of those exercises, we knew where the other was weaker.
Killian waited—he was patient, always looking for the right time to strike.
I was impulsive, striking first, asking questions—never.
Those drills instilled in us this stupid understanding—and it was how Killian gets my meaning, laughing quietly.
“If we live,” he remarks, checking his caliber, “you’re buying the liquor this time.”
“If we live, how about I don’t kill you after?”
It’s fluid as we twist away. My finger finds the trigger, so familiar, pulling it without a thought. The man jumps, and I continue, coming close to his head as he ducks behind an upturned table.
Beside me, Killian stands, feet planted, firing with one hand. The other holds his knife, ready for another surprise attack. Glass falls in front of me, and I jerk, shielding my vision.
The Reaper curses, and I look up as a bullet grazes his shoulder. Rage possesses me, numbing everything, and I stand. They shot him—Killian. My Reaper.
Quickly, firing at the man to keep him down, I ignore the pull of pain at my hip before turning toward the woman. I pump two bullets into her chest, red coloring my sight, nausea rising with the bile up my throat.
A blood cloud erupts into the air as Killian yanks me down.
Bloody fingers grip my cheeks, but I ignore his furious gaze.
Ripping the jacket away, I only exhale when I see the wound.
It’s only a thick gash—totally manageable.
And that worry—that insane, consuming anxiety that makes me want to claw my skin off—eases.
“You could’ve been killed,” he snarls, shaking me.
Before I can snap back, his gun whips upward, firing one confident bullet over my head.
Shoulders tight, I wait for the impact of a body, head tilting to stare into the dead eyes of the male assassin. Exhaling, I lean back, using what’s left of the counter to catch my breath.
A dark puddle grows under him, but it’s nothing compared to all the other blood. Bodies line the ground, and standing, I sway. I’m not unaccustomed to death, but to see innocents killed for nothing—it hits a part of my heart I thought was dead.
Killian opens his pockets, searching for any information. I’m not surprised when he doesn’t find it.
Sirens wail outside, and I curse. Grabbing my bag, I pivot toward the exit. “We need to go—” Incredible pain spreads over my side, and I gasp, doubling over.
Killian grabs me, fingers digging into my elbow. The counter pain doesn’t touch the blooming agony on my side. “Fuck,” he curses, a hand on my hip. “You’ve been shot. Goddammit, Maeve.” Swinging me into his arms, I shout against the rough treatment.
My whole body throbs, heat flashing through me as the wound grows agitated. It radiates out, adrenaline failing. Fuck this—this I could forget. I’ve been shot before, and it’s not fun.
Kicking out another window, he steps over, boots crunching against the glass. His scent, his heat, lull me into a strange sense of comfort, and I bury my head in his neck. I’m so tired—my eyes feel like lead.
I can rest here. I know I’m safe in his arms.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he warns. I’m jostled, the car horn beeping. “Don’t you fucking leave me, Princess. Do you hear me? You’re not allowed to go.”
His arms grow tighter.
Snorting, my nose runs over his throat. His skin is so warm—and I’m so cold.
“Why do you get to leave but I can’t?”
My body jerks, head rolling. His essence leaves me, and I’m placed roughly into the car. A thick band covers my lap.
Brushing my back hair, I can’t bother to open my eyes. It takes too much effort, and I’m comfortable with them closed.
“I did it for you,” he confesses. “Now, hold on.”
I don’t say anything else—I let the darkness take me away.