CHAPTER 16
BLOOD ON THE LEATHER
POV: Elodie Fray
Track: Nightcall – London Grammar (Dark Cover)
Mood: High-Velocity Panic & Lethal Focus.
The garage door slams shut with a finality that shakes the concrete floor, sealing us inside the dark belly of the earth.
For a second, the silence is absolute. No wind. No gunfire. Just the ragged, wet sound of Alaric’s breathing and the frantic drumming of my own heart against my ribs.
"Alaric!"
I drop to my knees beside him. He is slumped against the wheel well of a massive black vehicle—an SUV that looks more like a tank than a car.
His face is grey, drained of all color, illuminated only by the harsh strip lighting of the garage.
His hand—the good one—is clamped over his left shoulder.
Blood is pulsing between his fingers, dark and thick, pooling on the pristine epoxy floor.
"Get up," I plead, grabbing his jacket. "We have to go. They’ll breach the door."
"The door... is titanium reinforced," he rasps, his teeth gritted in a rictus of pain. "It will hold... for five minutes."
He tries to stand, but his legs give way. He slides back down, leaving a smear of crimson on the car's fender. "I can't drive," he admits. The confession hits me harder than the gunfire outside. Alaric Graves, the man who controls everything, has lost control of his own body.
"I’ll drive," I say. The words come out before I can think about them.
"It’s an armored G-Wagon," he coughs, spitting a speck of blood onto his chin. "It handles like... a battleship. Can you handle a battleship, Elodie?"
"I just killed a man, Alaric. I can drive a damn car."
Something sparks in his eyes. A flash of pride amidst the agony. "Keys," he groans. "Pocket."
I reach into his leather jacket. My hands are coated in his blood, making the leather slick. I find the fob. I unlock the doors. "Help me," he commands.
I wrap my arm around his waist. He puts his weight on me. He is heavy—a mountain of muscle and bone that is slowly shutting down. I grunt with the effort, dragging him to the passenger side. I shove him in. He collapses onto the black leather seat, his head lolling back.
I run to the driver’s side. I jump in. The interior smells of new leather and gun oil. I hit the start button. The engine roars to life—a deep, guttural growl that vibrates through the chassis and up my spine. The dashboard lights up like a cockpit.
"Seatbelt," Alaric whispers. Even dying, he is the Director.
"Shut up," I snap, clicking my belt in. "How do I get out? The door is closed."
"Ram it?" he suggests weakly.
"No. There has to be a tunnel."
"Smart girl," he breathes, his eyes fluttering shut. "South wall. The panel... looks like a tool cabinet."
I slam the gearshift into Drive. I stomp on the gas. The car lurches forward. I spin the wheel, tires squealing on the polished floor. I aim for the south wall. I don't slow down. If he’s lying, we die. If he’s hallucinating, we die. Trust the monster.
I brace for impact. At the last second, the sensor reads the car’s transponder. The fake wall splits open. We shoot into a dark tunnel. It’s narrow. Rough-hewn rock. I turn on the high beams. They cut through the darkness, illuminating the path upward.
"Where does this go?" I yell over the engine noise.
"Highway 9," Alaric murmurs. He is pressing a towel from the glove box against his shoulder. The white terry cloth is already soaked red. "Two miles north... of the house."
We climb. The tunnel winds up through the mountain. I drive fast, too fast. My hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel. My pianist fingers, which usually dance with such lightness, are gripping the leather like claws. I glance at the rearview mirror. Nothing yet.
We burst out of the tunnel mouth, crashing through a camouflage net of fake pine branches.
The world explodes into white again. We are on the road.
The wind hits the armored glass with a shriek.
The snow is coming down in sheets, horizontal and blinding.
I skid, the heavy tail of the SUV fishtailing on the black ice.
"Easy!" Alaric barks, snapping back to consciousness.
"Steer into the slide! Don't touch the brakes! "
I fight the wheel. Left. Right. The tires find traction. The car straightens out. I floor it.
"We need distance," I say, my voice shaking. "We need a hospital."
"No hospital," Alaric growls. "They’ll finish the job. We go to the Safe House Bravo."
"You have two safe houses?"
"I have five. Drive."
I look at the speedometer. Eighty miles per hour on a mountain pass in a blizzard. I am insane. Or I am finally awake.
CRACK. The back window spiderwebs. I scream.
"Contact!" Alaric shouts, twisting in his seat to look back. "They’re behind us!"
I check the mirror. Through the swirling snow, I see lights. Xenon headlights. High off the ground. Two black SUVs. They are gaining on us. A muzzle flash lights up the interior of the lead car. Ping. A bullet hits the rear liftgate.
"They’re shooting at us!" I yell, swerving to avoid the next volley.
"They’re shooting at the tires," Alaric corrects. He reaches under his seat. He pulls out a submachine gun. An MP5. "Keep it steady."
"Alaric, you can't aim! You're bleeding out!"
"I don't need to aim," he says, rolling down his window. The freezing wind and snow blast into the cabin, swirling around us like a hurricane. "I just need to make them flinch."
He leans out. With his good arm, he rests the gun on the door frame. brRRRRT. A burst of automatic fire rips from the gun. The sound is deafening inside the car. Hot brass casings fly everywhere, bouncing off the dashboard, burning my neck.
Behind us, the lead SUV swerves. Alaric hit their windshield. "Drive, Elodie! Faster!"
I press the pedal to the floor. The engine screams. We hit a curve. I drift, the back wheels hanging precariously over the edge of the cliff. Below us, a thousand-foot drop into the valley. My heart stops. I yank the wheel. We slam back onto the asphalt.
"You're doing great," Alaric yells over the wind. He is pale as death, his teeth bared in a feral grin. He looks like a demon enjoying the ride to hell. "Just like the piano! Rhythm! Flow!"
"I hate you!" I scream back, tears streaming down my face. "I hate you for this!"
"Use the hate!" he roars. "Hate keeps you warm!"
He fires again. The lead SUV takes a hit to the radiator.
Steam erupts from its hood. It slows down, blocking the car behind it.
"One down," Alaric pants. He pulls himself back inside and rolls up the window. He slumps against the door, the gun falling from his hand. The adrenaline dump is hitting him. He’s fading.
"Alaric?" I reach over and touch his leg. "Stay with me. Don't you dare close your eyes."
"I'm here," he whispers. His voice is barely audible. "Turn on... the scanner. The radio."
"Why?"
"I want to hear... who ordered the hit."
I fumble with the console. I find the scanner button. Alaric programmed it. Static fills the car. Krrrschhhhh. Then, voices. Distorted. Coded. But clear enough.
"Target One is damaged. Director Graves is hit. Repeat, Director is hit."
"What about the Asset?" A new voice cuts in. Deep. Synthetic.
"The Asset is driving. She’s hostile. She took down Operative 4."
"The girl killed him?" The deep voice sounds amused. "Excellent. Her value just went up."
My stomach churns. The Asset. Her value. They are talking about me like a stock option. Like a racehorse.
"Bring her in," the voice commands. "Do not damage the merchandise. Aim for the driver. Put Graves in the ground. Secure the girl."
"Copy. Engaging."
Alaric lets out a dark, wet chuckle. "Did you hear that, petite?"
"They want me alive," I whisper.
"They want the product," he corrects. "But they underestimated the packaging. They don't know you have teeth." He coughs, blood bubbling past his lips. "Listen to me. There is a turnoff. Three miles. Old logging road. It’s unmarked."
"I see it on the GPS?"
"No GPS. Maps are for people who want to be found. You have to find it... by instinct. Look for the twin pines."
"Alaric, if we go off-road in this snow, we’ll get stuck."
"This car... doesn't get stuck," he slurs. "And if we stay on the highway... they have a roadblock waiting. I know their playbook. I wrote it."
His head drops to his chest. "Alaric!"
"Twin... pines..."
I look at the road. The snow is mesmerizing, hypnotic. The white lines are gone. Behind us, the second SUV has maneuvered around the disabled one. It is closing the gap. I see the grille in my mirror. It’s massive. A ramming bar. They are going to run us off the road.
Aim for the driver. They are going to kill Alaric and drag me out of the wreckage.
I see it. Ahead. On the left. Two massive pine trees, leaning toward each other like an archway. Between them, a wall of snow. If there is a road there, it hasn't been used in years. If Alaric is wrong... I’m driving us into a tree at ninety miles an hour.
The SUV behind bumps us. Thump. The impact jars my spine. They are trying to spin us.
I grit my teeth. Show me the monster. I don't brake. I accelerate. I yank the wheel hard to the left.
We leave the highway. We hit the snowbank. It explodes. A cloud of white blinds the windshield. For a second, we are airborne. I scream.
Then we hit the ground. Mud. Gravel. Ice. The tires spin, grabbing for purchase. The traction control light flashes like a strobe. The car fishtails wildly, knocking down saplings, bouncing over rocks. But we are moving. We are tearing through the forest, carving a path where none existed.
I look in the mirror. The pursuit SUV missed the turn. They shot past us on the highway. By the time they brake and turn around, we will be ghosts in the woods.
I drive for ten minutes. Twenty. The logging road is brutal.
The car groans and creaks, suspension bottoming out.
Finally, the road widens into a clearing.
There is a structure. Not a glass house.
Not a mansion. An old hunting cabin. Log walls.
Tin roof. Smoke coming from the chimney? No. No smoke. It’s abandoned.
I stop the car. The silence rushes back in, ringing in my ears. I turn to Alaric. "We made it," I say, my voice cracking. "Alaric, we made it."
He doesn't answer. His head is slumped against the window. His skin is waxy, blue-white in the dashboard light. The towel on his shoulder is saturated, dripping onto the console. He isn't moving.
"No," I whisper. I unbuckle. I reach over and grab his face. "No, no, no. You don't get to die. You promised to ruin me, remember? You haven't finished the job!"
I slap his cheek. lightly. Then harder. "Wake up!"
His eyelids flutter. Silver irises appear, dull and clouded. "Elodie..."
"We're here. I need you to walk. Just one more time."
"Can't," he whispers. "Too... heavy."
"You are not heavy!" I scream at him, grabbing his jacket and shaking him. "You are the Director! You are the King! Get up!"
He looks at me. He sees the blood on my hands. He sees the fire in my eyes. A faint smile touches his bloody lips. "You look... beautiful... when you're terrified."
"I'm not terrified," I sob. "I'm angry. Get up, or I will drag you."
I get out of the car. I run to his side. I open the door. He falls out, collapsing into my arms. I buckle under his weight, my knees hitting the snow. We are tangled together on the frozen ground.
"Leave me," he murmurs into the snow. "Hide in the cabin. There's a... cellar."
"Shut up," I grunt, hooking my arms under his armpits. "I killed a man today. I drove off a cliff. I am not leaving you in a snowbank."
I pull. I scream with the effort. My boots slip. My back screams. But I move him. Inch by inch. I drag him toward the cabin door. A trail of red follows us, staining the virgin snow.
Red on white. It looks like the roses he sent to my dressing room after the recital. Red on white. It looks like the keys of the piano after I smashed my fingers.
I reach the door. I kick it open. It’s dark inside. Smells of mold and old wood. I drag him in. I kick the door shut.
We are safe. For now.
I collapse next to him on the dusty floorboards. I check his pulse. It is thready. Fast. A bird fluttering against a cage. He is bleeding out. I have the med kit in the car. But I don't have blood. I can't give him blood.
I need to cauterize it. Or pressure it. I rip the hem of my shirt. I press it into the wound. He doesn't even flinch. That’s bad. That’s very bad.
"Alaric," I whisper, leaning my forehead against his cold damp one. "Don't leave me alone. Not now. Not when I finally understand the music."
He breathes out. A long, rattling exhale. "Play..." he whispers. "Play for me..."
And then he goes still. He’s not dead. I can feel the faint beat. But he’s gone. Into the dark.
I am alone in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. With a dying man. And an army coming for us.
I look at his gun belt. The MP5. The SIG Sauer. I check the ammo. I have two magazines left.
I sit up. I wipe the tears from my face with a bloody hand, leaving streaks of war paint on my skin. I look at the door. Let them come. Let the "Buyer" come. Let the world come.
I am Elodie Fray. I am the Director's Muse. And I am going to burn this whole forest down before I let them touch him.