One minute before her own deadline and the girl gets antsy again. Her breath scratches my shoulder, heavy and unsteady. The scent of her blood taints the air, dripping from the cuts in her throat that she doesn’t even seem to notice. She managed not to sever anything vital, apparently, but she’ll have a nice set of brand new scars to remember her fiancé’s sadistic “punishment” by.
Stacatto isn’t the only sick fuck on the game board though. Arno has certainly learned a few lessons when it came to planning the layout of his hideout—even I have to give the asshole credit. The tunnel opened into the basement of the warehouse. The upper level was a cavernous interior filled with dust, and most of the massive windows were boarded shut. If Stacatto had gotten wind of this little route, it would make for the perfect slaughterhouse.
Luckily, Arno learned how to keep his fucking mouth shut in the five years I’ve been gone. There’s no one patrolling the main level at least. Positioned near one of the windows, I have a clear view of the front of the pub through a gap in the plywood. At first glance, it appears just like any other sleepy street at the ass crack of dawn. About a half a block down, a man lounges on a bench, reading a newspaper with a stroller sitting nearby. A few cars drift past, but none look like the type I’d imagine Stacatto’s men driving. I almost believe that the bitch got her information wrong, at least until I hear her gasp.
I flinch at the sensation of her finger trailing down the length of my forearm. She’s cold. Her breath paints the air white, and I can hear her teeth chatter as she brings her hand over the one of mine holding Arno’s pistol.
“What are you doing?” I should shrug her off. I don’t know why the hell I don’t.
She shuffles closer, and I imagine her straining on tiptoe to bring her mouth close enough to my ear for her to whisper. “There.”
I don’t resist the gentle pull of her fingers. She steers my hand up, aiming it directly at the man on the bench. I scoff and lower the weapon. She’s paranoid. She’s insane. She’s...
With a sigh, I raise the pistol. It’s nearing eight. If this little scenario has any chance of being turned around on its head now is the time to act. I pull the trigger and deliberately miss, striking the dirt at the man’s feet.
Instantly, he bolts upright, tossing the paper aside. What would seem like a normal, panicked reaction from anyone else is just a little too smooth when enacted by him—honed reflex. He takes no time to get his bearings before reaching into his coat and drawing a gun.
“Get down!” I shove the girl aside and aim again. It takes two more shots before the fucker falls to his knees, but his friends have finally arrived at the party. One of those “harmless” cars slows, and even more men climb out. There’s five of them at least. At a glance, I take stock of their muscled builds and stoic expressions. They’re professional. Hardened. True killers.
Stacatto wasted no chance on not getting his pretty little fiancée back. Caught unaware, Arno and his merry band of idiots wouldn’t have stood a chance. My eyes stray to her before I can help it. Does it even register that she saved my life?
Does it really fucking matter if we’re all still dead within ten minutes if I can’t clear a good enough route?
I grit my teeth and peer through the window. Shit. The bastard I shot is still alive, pointing frantically in the direction he thinks the shot came from. It’s just my luck that he’s right. The men split up with three heading toward the pub and two heading straight for me.
“Shit. We need to move.” I grab the girl’s arm and pull her toward a battered exit I’d scoped out earlier. The alley beyond it seems clear at a glance, and I drag her forward, pressing my back against the brick wall of the building, listening hard with every cautious step.
The men are still at the front of the warehouse. I hear a thud and realize that they decided to forgo knocking and kicked the fucking door in. Perfect. I raise the cell phone in my free hand and bring it to my mouth. “Arno go. Go now!”
A grunt of acknowledgment comes from the other end, leaving the girl and me with about five seconds to get clear before all hell breaks loose. Breaking cover, I run like hell toward the nearest alley, all but dragging her behind me.
Two.
Three.
Five.
Gunfire erupts from the warehouse—courtesy of Arno’s arsenal turned on two hired thugs. Defeat is still a risk, and a part of me wants to double back and fight. As if sensing the direction my thoughts take, Arno’s voice crackles through the cell phone. “Got it covered, Kitty. Meet you at the rendezvous spot.”
Seconds later I’m about two blocks down from the pub. The gunfire’s gone silent, but I’m not stupid enough to chalk it up as a victory yet. Only God knew what else Vinny Stacatto might have lurking up his sleeve by way of backup. Though, maybe God and one other soul. She watches me with vacant hazel eyes that don’t register anything until I snap my fingers beneath her nose.
“It worked.”
Worked. She mouths the word, seemingly confused. Her gaze trails down over her hands, and she flexes them, satisfied with their movement. When she glances up, the manic, slightly unsteady gleam in her gaze should make me uneasy. “I always beat him at tic-tac-toe.”
The bitch planned her strategy on a children’s game. It’s as impressive a thought as it is terrifying. “Now what?” I demand though the question isn’t directed at her or at the cell phone I toss to the ground and quickly stomp beneath my boot. What fucking now?
Stacatto’s woman watches me, unwilling to put forth an answer. She’s shivering in nothing but my shirt and bare feet. Wearing only jeans and my boots, I’m not dressed any warmer. Arno set a rendezvous point, but even I wasn’t stupid to head there now without knowing just who the fuck might be on my trail.
Tucking the pistol into my waistband, I look over at the girl. “Come on.”
It’s a bad decision to travel the main street. We draw eyes wherever we go, her most of all. Even cutting through alleys doesn’t seem to soothe the paranoid itch gnawing through my skull that we’re being followed. We cover nearly a mile before I finally scope out a familiar block of territory—far from both Stacatto’s and Arno’s playpens. It’s still clear—for now—but we won’t last long without catching the notice of someone.
I find a bus station and make a calculated risk. The few security cameras face away from the terminals, and I don’t see any near the bathrooms where I shove the girl inside the one marked “women’s.” A quick scan reveals that there’s no one else inside.
“Give me my shirt,” I tell her, pushing her toward the nearest open stall. She staggers inside, clutching at the toilet seat. “Now.”
She does so without question, curling up naked against the wall of the stall while I slip it on. She flinches when I hand her the gun, pressing it against her palm when she doesn’t take it for herself.
“Stay here,” I tell her while slamming the stall door shut to hide her from sight. “If anyone tries to get in who isn’t me, shoot them.”
I head for the door without giving her the chance to answer, but when I glance back over my shoulder, I see her dirty feet slowly lift one by one to disappear into the stall as if she climbed onto the toilet, tucking her heels on the rim and her knees beneath her chin.
When I exit the station, I head south and go down another block before coming to a boutique that is already opening its doors. One quick glance around reveals that there are no other options within the block, and I don’t have the time to seek one out. With a sigh, I reach into my pocket, withdrawing the money I’d gotten from that punk Andre.
When I step through the doors, the saleswoman behind the counter freezes, a charming grin stuck on her face. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah.” I shove the money in her direction and her entire body language shifts at the sight of nearly a grand in cash. “I need an outfit for a woman. Shoes too.” I glance around at the sequin dresses on display, frowning. “Something practical.”
“Practical.” The sales girl licks her lips and gives her earnest smile another go. With her eyes on the cash, she prances over to a section of hangers and runs her fingers along the collection of colored clothes. “I can work with that. Leather or lace?”