Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“This way,” I say and lead the girls to the side door. Ronan’s already there standing in the delivery bay with his gun drawn, making sure the place is clear. There’s nobody around. “The fucking Serbs must not have known about this.”
“What do we do once we’re out?” Brianne asks.
Suddenly, a gunshot cracks. I jerk sideways, instinctively covering Brianne’s body with my own. Helga’s next to me, her weapon aimed and smoking. Up ahead, a man tumbles down off a nearby roof and hits the ground hard. I stare at the German woman, my mouth hanging open.
“That was one hell of a shot,” I tell her.
Helga shrugs. “It is nothing. Now, we run.”
We sprint down the loading bay and into the alley. Kim’s chair rattles and she’s moaning in pain but she says nothing. Helga’s pushing, and I’m practically carrying Brianne. Jean, Niall, and the rest of the soldiers are bringing up the rear, as shouting and shooting start in the house behind us. The Serbians must’ve broken through the barricades.
“Go, this way,” I say, turning to the main block.
“But that’s where they are!” Jean yells.
That’s exactly my plan. We careen around the corner, and up ahead are the vans the Serbians used to get here in the first place.
And they’re only lightly guarded.
Helga takes one of the drivers out with a well-placed headshot. But that alerts the rest, and the firefight starts again. I swerve with Brianne, keeping her behind me, as I yank the corpse from the driver’s seat and make her get inside.
“Everyone, load up!” I yell as two of my soldiers get killed attempting to get in the back. Helga gets Kim inside right as Dusan and his men still in the mansion start pouring out the front door. Smoke dumps thick out the top windows and the fire’s raging out of control now.
Jean’s in the back with Niall and the last few soldiers still breathing. I start the van’s engine as Dusan starts shooting. Bullets ricochet off the metal paneling and crack the side window, nearly hitting me right in the skull.
I shove Brianne down and jam my foot on the gas, jerking the van forward, nearly losing control.
But the van hits pavement and we’re riding away from hell in the devil’s own fucking chariot.
Chapter 39
Brianne
The house is quiet. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears and it freaks me out. I try to get comfortable on the narrow couch, rolling onto my side, sitting up again, stretching my legs, but nothing works.
I keep hearing the gunshots.
They’re in my head—it’s quiet here early in the morning. But I swear they’re real, and I keep flinching at the memory of the terror that nearly ate me from the inside.
I don’t know how Julien got us out, but he did it, and he even saved Kim. She was in rough shape when we finally stopped for long enough to regroup, and Julien sent her on with Helga to a private medical facility on the edge of the border with Canada. Somewhere he promises she’ll be safe and extremely well cared for, especially considering Helga seems to have taken an active interest in her recovery. I keep telling myself she’ll be okay, she’ll have the time and space to heal far away from this mess, but there’s something wrong with being apart from her.
This is my fault. I never should have brought Kim into this nightmare. And if what happened causes her injuries to heal wrong and messes up her life, I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself.
Sunrise finally comes and I make coffee in a cramped kitchen. The apartment is on the top floor of a nondescript rowhome in a quiet neighborhood on the west side of the city. It’s not nice, but it’s not a piece of crap either. The furniture is new, there are plates and cups and such in the cabinets, and Julien even stocked the refrigerator and pantry with everything we’ll need.
The shower water hisses in the pipes. I hear it like a whisper in the walls. Ever since the attack on the mansion, we haven’t been apart for more than an hour—the amount of time it took him to go get supplies—and even having him away from me in the shower feels like too much.
But I know I’m being clingy, and I’m trying to let him have some alone time.
I’m relieved when he emerges wearing a pair of shorts and no shirt. He ruffles his hair with a towel and accepts a mug of coffee as we sit together on the couch, our knees touching. “I needed this,” he says, taking a long drink, and sighs. Bags hang under his eyes. I don’t think he’s slept more than a few hours since everything went down two days ago.
“You don’t have to sit around this apartment with me, you know.” I lean on his shoulder, snuggling in close, which I know sort of contradicts what I’m saying.