Chapter Nineteen Over the Bridge
Chapter Nineteen
Over the Bridge
Everyone moved at once. The officers drew their weapons, pointing them at Hasan and Samina.
Montrose sprang for Poppy. Poppy jumped back, crashing into Hasan.
He grabbed her, pulling her into his chest. Keeping one arm around her front, he pulled a dagger from his belt, pressing it against her throat.
Poppy squeaked, but he held firm. Montrose came up short.
“Let us go,” Hasan growled, “or the future Lady Montrose won’t leave this room alive.”
“You wouldn’t harm her,” Montrose said, but Hasan had seen him waver.
The man might have taken his own sweet time getting his fiancée back, but it was clear that even if he didn’t care for her well-being, he still needed her alive.
“If you kill her, I’ll kill your brother,” Montrose threatened.
“Don’t forget—he’s still in my custody.”
The reminder wrapped itself around Hasan’s neck like a noose, but if he faltered now, he’d never recover the higher ground.
Montrose thought him a soulless criminal, loyal only to greed.
Though his pulse was roaring louder than his thoughts, he forced himself to sneer, leaning into the other man’s prejudice.
“You’re already planning to kill him—if you haven’t already.
” He shifted the angle of the blade, allowing it to bite a fraction into Poppy’s throat.
Hot blood kissed his fingers, trailing down her neck until it seeped into the neckline of her white gown.
“If I can’t have my brother, then I’ll have my revenge. ”
“Get down!” From the doorway, Harithi’s order swept through the room.
He dropped the dagger and wrenched Poppy to the floor, covering her body with his as Harithi opened fire.
Richard dove, crawling toward them at lightning speed, but Samina pounced on him, her brass knuckles flashing as she pounded him in the back of the head. He roared, trying to buck her off.
“Let’s go!” Harithi shouted. “It’s a bloodbath downstairs.”
“Leave me!” Samina said, choking Montrose with his own collar. “I’ll hold him.”
Hasan yanked Poppy to her feet, running out into the hallway with her. Harithi led their group, their blood-soaked shoes leaving tracks on the pale green runner. “You knew, didn’t you?” Hasan hissed at Poppy. “You knew Montrose was up to something.”
“No,” she cried, shaking her head. The gesture made her neck bleed even more. “I didn’t!”
“Then what were you going to tell me?”
Rat-a-tat-tat. Gunfire interrupted their conversation.
The three of them ducked behind a statue of the five founding lords for shelter.
Hasan peered down into the foyer, where a full battle raged.
Things did not look good for their crew of daivyakt.
Though most of them were equipped with both daivyakhi and pistols, Montrose’s men had come in full-body armor, with the most advanced weaponry he had ever seen.
Though his men fought valiantly, their blood painted the walls of the museum.
Hasan lifted his gaze to Harithi, who nodded at him in silent agreement. He positioned his pistol between the stone shoulders of the first Lords Alderfort and Whitecliff, firing into the fray. He and Harithi took down two, five, six officers, until one of them looked up and saw them.
He ducked back behind the statue as a bullet blew off Lord Alderfort’s stony hand. Harithi fired once more, but her gun clicked uselessly.
“Empty,” she cursed, crouching behind the statue. “How big was your naumya?”
“Decent.” In addition to the sacrifice of Paranjay’s watch that he’d made a week ago, he’d been regularly giving up meals, storing up power in anticipation of a potential assault on the precinct.
“Look,” Harithi said. “If we go down there right now, we’ll be shot so many times, our bodies will be more lead than flesh. We need to smoke the pigs out.”
“And risk burning our own?” Hasan shook his head. “I can’t.”
“You must,” Harithi insisted. “Our crew will manage. This is the only way.”
“Watch out!” Poppy shouted, interrupting them.
She yanked Hasan backward, pulling him out of the trajectory of a bullet.
Hasan followed its path back to the man who had fired it: Montrose.
The captain stood at the other end of the hallway, hat missing, golden hair rumpled, blood pouring over his rapidly swelling lip into the torn collar of his shirt.
His heart sank. What had happened to Samina? His vision clouded over, and he lifted his gun and fired back at Richard. Once, twice, click. His gun was out of bullets.
“You’ll regret killing my men, Jackal!” Richard bared bloody teeth as he advanced on them. Hasan stepped out into the hallway, flinging both his arms forward. A wave of flame burst from his fingertips, catching on the runner, forcing Richard to stop short.
Behind him, Poppy sucked in a breath. “You’re like me.”
He turned, narrowing his eyes at her. “What does that mean?”
Then Montrose fired through the flames. Searing pain pierced Hasan’s back, and he bellowed, his vision flickering as he dropped to one knee.
The bastard had shot him, he realized, the thought hazy and disjointed by his initial shock.
Indignation followed. How the fuck had he let Richard Montrose draw first blood?
He’d hit him back twofold—once he found a way to get off the ground.
Harithi seized his arm, hauling him back to his feet.
“Move!” she commanded. The three of them ran around the curved balcony, ducking behind the railing on the other side.
Every movement tore through Hasan’s body like he was being shot anew.
When they stopped, he slouched, blood staining the marble.
His breaths came in uneven, ragged gasps, like those of the fish his father used to catch right before they were clubbed and tossed in the bottom of the boat.
Faintly, he registered Poppy and Harithi conferring over his body, but the blood rushing in his ears drowned out their words.
Harithi slapped his face once, twice. Hasan’s eyes flew open—he hadn’t realized they’d drifted shut.
“Get up,” she said, her face drawn with worry. “We have a plan.”
Harithi hefted him to his feet. “The statue.” She pointed down at Charles Sutherland. “You get his cape, and I’ll do the rest.”
Hasan understood in a second. Putting out both his hands, he poured the last of his energy into two jets of flame.
They caught the dark velvet easily, devouring the rich fabric.
Harithi took over, stretching out her hands.
As she curled her fingers into fists, the ground rumbled beneath the statue.
An earsplitting crack filled the museum foyer, the only warning before the first viceroy of Viryana toppled, falling to the right.
He crashed to the floor, crushing several of the officers hiding behind him.
His shoulders and head shattered the window, tearing through the wall.
Dust and smoke filled the air as men of both camps fled from the flaming statue.
The fire leaped from the cape, catching on to the drapes nearby.
“Now!” Harithi said. Poppy laced one arm through Hasan’s, Harithi taking the other. Together, the two women dragged him down the stairs, through the hole in the wall, and out into the street.
· · ·
Poppy was having a nightmare. That was the only explanation for what was happening. Never before had she seen so much carnage. A cacophony of violence roared in her ears, gunshots blasting and bones cracking and the wet slap of her once-white shoes as they ran through puddles of blood.
Blood. She had basic medical training, but no amount of preparation could have prepared her for this much blood.
It soaked the back of the Jackal’s jacket, an ominous shadow that spread with every passing second.
As he leaned heavily against her, the wet warmth seeped into her dress, blooming in patches like the flower she’d been named for.
“We need to move faster,” Harithi ordered.
She had taken over completely, a natural battle commander, fearless and fierce.
She’d nicked one of the police weapons from the ground as they’d made their escape, wielding it with one hand, hauling the Jackal with the other as they hustled through the back alleys of the art district.
“We have to stop,” Poppy said, her voice shallow and breathless. “He’s losing too much blood. We have to apply pressure to the wound.”
“We can stop once we get in the car.”
“He’ll die if he doesn’t get help!”
“He’ll die if we get caught!” Harithi retorted. “Once the cops regroup and call for backup, our chance at escape narrows significantly.”
They turned out of the alley onto a quiet street. Not a single car was in sight. Harithi said, “Where the fuck is—”
A charcoal sedan with heavily tinted windows swerved into view, squealing to a stop beside them. They ran to the car as the driver’s side window rolled down, revealing a Virian man in his early thirties, with a close-shaven beard.
“You’re late, asshole!” Harithi shouted, her shoulders sagging with relief.
“They’ve blockaded the roads,” the newcomer explained. “We have to go quickly.” Then he caught sight of the Jackal, and his jaw dropped. “What happened to Hasan?”
Hasan. So that was the Jackal’s name, Poppy thought. Though the round syllables seemed incongruous with the bloodied man leaning on her, it suited him, the soft, unvoiced s like the hiss of a viper.
“Gunshot wound,” she said, while Harithi simultaneously snarled, “Montrose.”
She opened the back-seat door, and together, the two women managed to get the Jackal—Hasan—inside, streaking blood on the cream leather seats. “Sit with him,” Harithi ordered, getting into the passenger seat. “Do not let him lose consciousness.”