I don’t wait to be told, clicking the safety off.
We exchange a quick look—quiet, but meaningful. It’s odd. The one man whom I would stab after he left me is the only man I can read better than myself. He’s the one person I would trust in this situation.
He grins, and because I’m just as fucking unhinged, I’m grinning too, body singing with the thrill of a fight. We’re two people who feel alive surrounded by death.
“Ready?”
“Shut up,” I whisper, but I can’t stop the soft giggle. It’s freeing—to be here, a gun in my hand, the Reaper at my side. No other worries—no other concerns. Life or death. Here and now. No past, no future, only present.
And I wouldn’t choose anyone else to help me.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Kicking across the tile, we slide across to brace against the pastry case. Glass cuts my side and hands, but the pain is a distant memory as we press to the counter. The final click sounds, and we hold our breath.
We’re a practiced unit, jumping into action. Splitting apart, I take one corner, he the other, and wait for the bullets to begin. The assassins don’t waste time, spraying them across the room like a hose of water. As the counter dents and smashes, the wood splinters. The computer screen crashes, dropping beside me, nicking my arm.
Panting, I press two fingers to the gash. It’s nothing major, but if it had fallen on my head…
Killian growls under his breath, glaring at me—like it’smyfault.
“Instead ofblamingme, be useful. Have a plan?”
“Other than kill them for hurting you?” His upper lip curls. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“Fine.” I nod once. “What about drills?”
The runners in the clan were all kids growing up. My father used them because they were easy to replace. They didn’t take much for food, and they were eager. But Killian and I were under Ferguson’s roof—we were expected to be better. So, we practiced drills with the older runners and soldiers.
The shooting exercises—not unlike what police recruits experienced from target shooting, surprise attacks, and disarming an enemy—were intense. Meant to heighten ourreaction time, they taught us basic skills we would need in a gun trade. We were often paired together and forced to work as one.
We hated it. And because neither of us liked the other, we made it into a competition. The better shot bought ice cream. When we got older, it was booze.
But because of those exercises, we knew where the other was weaker. Killian waited—he was patient, always looking for the right time to strike. I was impulsive, striking first, asking questions—never. Those drills instilled in us this stupid understanding—and it was how Killian gets my meaning, laughing quietly.
“If we live,” he remarks, checking his caliber, “you’re buying the liquor this time.”
“If we live, how about I don’t kill you after?”
It’s fluid as we twist away. My finger finds the trigger, so familiar, pulling it without a thought. The man jumps, and I continue, coming close to his head as he ducks behind an upturned table.
Beside me, Killian stands, feet planted, firing with one hand. The other holds his knife, ready for another surprise attack. Glass falls in front of me, and I jerk, shielding my vision.
The Reaper curses, and I look up as a bullet grazes his shoulder. Rage possesses me, numbing everything, and I stand. They shot him—Killian.MyReaper.
Quickly, firing at the man to keep him down, I ignore the pull of pain at my hip before turning toward the woman. I pump two bullets into her chest, red coloring my sight, nausea rising with the bile up my throat.
A blood cloud erupts into the air as Killian yanks me down. Bloody fingers grip my cheeks, but I ignore his furious gaze. Ripping the jacket away, I only exhale when I see the wound. It’s only a thick gash—totally manageable. And that worry—thatinsane, consuming anxiety that makes me want to claw my skin off—eases.
“You could’ve been killed,” he snarls, shaking me.
Before I can snap back, his gun whips upward, firing one confident bullet over my head.
Shoulders tight, I wait for the impact of a body, head tilting to stare into the dead eyes of the male assassin. Exhaling, I lean back, using what’s left of the counter to catch my breath.
A dark puddle grows under him, but it’s nothing compared to all the other blood. Bodies line the ground, and standing, I sway. I’m not unaccustomed to death, but to see innocents killed for nothing—it hits a part of my heart I thought was dead.
Killian opens his pockets, searching for any information. I’m not surprised when he doesn’t find it.
