43
HAWK
I careenup to the house and race out of the truck.
Run to the door.
It’s unlocked, thank God.
Whoever is here never thought they’d be found.
Or they want to be found.
I don’t rightly care which.My boots slap the floorboards, heartbeat echoing in my ears.
The air smells strange.Like food.Different foods.Spices that my nose isn’t familiar with.And dust and mildew.
Then a muffled thud.Underneath me.
Then another.
A clatter, sharp and violent.
“Dani,” I breathe, already moving, looking for a door that could lead?—
I find it quickly, wrench open the door.
The staircase groans under my weight as I take it two steps at a time.
The sound grows louder—grunting, scraping, a glass breaking.
Then a voice—a man’s—low, pained.
And a woman’s, ragged and desperate.
A voice I know.
I hit the bottom landing and the sight nearly stops my heart.
Daniela.
Alive.
She’s straddling a man twice her size—the chef—blood streaming from his left shoulder, his shirt already slick with it.
She’s reaching for something glinting on the floor.
“Get off him!”I shout, voice rough.
“Hawk!”she yells.
“I’ve got him, baby.Get off!”
She rolls to the side, gasping, just as he lurches upright.
He’s still strong—stronger than any bleeding man should be—and he swings at her.The blow misses, but the movement exposes his throat.
That’s all I need.
