Blood dripped from my mouth and soaked into the carpet.

A fist slammed into the back of my head, and I fell facedown, my ribs burning. A boot collided with my side, and I cried out despite biting my tongue. I was pummeled, punched and kicked savagely, but all I could think about was Sloane. I had to get to her, I—

I roared in pain as one of the men stomped on my arm. They laughed and went on kicking. My head snapped to the side as a boot collided with the side of my face, stars exploding through my vision.

“I’ll kill you,” I rasped.

“Hear that?” one of the men said. The bigger, fat one. “He says he’s gonna kill us.”

The second man burst out laughing and slapped his buddy on the shoulder. “Like to see him try.”

“I’ll kill you,” I said again.

A boom echoed from the next room, and my head moved toward the sound.

“What was that?” the big one asked.

“It’s a gunshot, you idiot,” the other replied.

There was a bang at the door, and it flung inward, revealing an extremely pissed off Sloane. She raised her hands, and the glint of metal caught my eye.

“Eat shit, assholes,” she drawled, then opened fire.

Before the men could react, bullets slammed into their chests in a shower of blood. The first one dropped, the second stumbled and reached for his gun, but Sloane was faster. She shot him again, and he went down…and didn’t get up.

Dropping the revolver, she fell to her knees beside me, her mouth falling open in shock. It must be bad, then.

Her wrists were bound. Her skin was rubbed raw and bleeding. Her lip was split, and a red mark blazed across her cheek.

“He hung you,” I said, my fingers brushing weakly at the nylon rope around her wrists. “The bastard hung you.”

“Past tense,” she murmured, checking my wounds. “I shot him.” She paused, her gaze meeting mine. “Right through the throat.”

“He choked…”

“He choked.”

“Good.” I closed my eyes, but everything burned. I was fairly sure I had cracked ribs, a broken arm, a severe concussion, and they were the least of my problems.

“Oh, God,” Sloane whispered, realizing how bad I was.

I could feel it. The cold. It seeped into my veins, spreading across my chest and into my limbs. Something was bleeding inside me.

“There’s a security system,” I said. “There’s a panel beside the door. Lock us down.”

“Won’t they be able to get in?”

“Eventually.”

She nodded and rushed to the controls beside the bedroom door. It wouldn’t stop them, but it would buy us some time.

I rolled onto my back and gritted my teeth as my broken bones grated. Nausea rolled through my stomach, and I swallowed to keep myself from throwing up.

“This is the complete opposite of Thelma and Louise, just so you know.” Sloane smoothed the hair from my brow, the movement awkward because of her bound wrists.

“I’m not ready to die just yet.” I coughed, my ribs grating together.

“Even if we have to spend the rest of our days in a maximum security prison?”

“We won’t go to prison, Sloane.”

“Says who?”

“Says the signed letter from the director of the FBI.”

“Assuming it’s real,” she complained.

“We’re out of options,” I said, wincing as my head began to throb with a sharp headache. “I’m fairly sure I need a hospital. Butcher can’t fix internal bleeding.”

A tear fell from her eye, and her hands found mine. “What do we do?” she said, her voice breaking. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Shh,” I murmured. “It’s going to be okay.”

“It’s not okay. It’s not.”

“If we leave the penthouse, we’re done. If we do manage to get out, they’ll find us at the hospital along with the FBI. If we can give them the evidence they need to dismantle the Hollow Men for good, with or without the signed deal, we have a chance.”

Sloane nodded. “If we leave, then someone else will just step into King’s shoes.”

“It has to stop here…or it never will.”

“Self-sacrifice sucks, by the way,” she drawled. “We can always jump off the roof…”

“We won’t be immortalized in a movie,” I replied. “There’s nothing in it for us. If there’s a chance…” I trailed off, my limbs feeling sluggish. I was so fucking tired.

“I know,” she murmured. “Let’s take it. All or nothing, right?”

“Freedom, family…”

“Love,” she finished for me.

“Give me the phone,” I said, holding out my hand.

Reaching up to the bedside table, she plucked the phone up and handed it to me. Dialing for an outside line, I punched in the only number my fading consciousness could remember.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

My head swam, and I tasted blood on my tongue.

“Hello?” the voice asked.

“My name is Gunnar Mason, and I want to talk to the director of the FBI.”

“Sir?”

“I have information that can dismantle a domestic crime syndicate, and I… I don’t have much time.”

Sloane’s grip tightened on my hand.

“Tell them… Tell them, the King is dead.”