Page 136 of Watched

He brought me on as his assistant, hoping to plant something on my laptop that would gain him access to The Weston. Even at twelve, I knew I needed to use independent servers for the business so they couldn’t be hacked by external devices. Any programs relating to Weston & Myer are only accessible from company computers, and I need to authorise access. That’s why he never applied for a job there. He said it himself, he couldn’t get in. He knew I’d have a fallback if he tried to hack the accounts internally.

He wasn’t teaching me about computers. He was deciphering what I knew.

“My uncle,” I shout, gripping the gun tighter. “He was the one who set up The Westons’ cybersecurity. He didn’t die because he beat the house. You killed him because he wouldn’t tell you how to get in.”

“Your father lies and steals!” Smith yells. “He takes from people for his own personal gain. You know that first fucking hand Rain—you help him do it! He blackmailed my mother into taking a deal that paid far less than the land was worth, all so he could build his first fucking hotel.”

This sick fuck jerked off to and sold photos of kids. He certainly has no grounds to play the morality police.

Keeping my rifle raised, I take a deep breath, the pungent smell filling my nose.

Gas.

“You smell it?” I ask Blade.

He nods, moving toward the back of the house. “Better run, brother.”

I push off the wall and enter the master bedroom across the hall, throwing the door shut as I swing my gun onto my back and open the window. Adrenaline pounds my heart as I grasp the window frame and lift myself up. The explosion kicks me forward, replacing my hearing with a piercing ring and sending hot pain through my body.

Could have waited a few more seconds, Xander.

I blink hard and work my jaw, trying to rid the annoying noise.

“Find him!” Smith orders from the front of the house.

If he wants into Weston & Myer, he can’t kill me. That doesn’t mean he won’t wound me or kill Blade and Xander in the process, though.

Resting my gun on my shoulder, I keep my finger on the trigger and step onto the pitched roof. A shot fires from the left, a scream following. Another shot, another scream.

The chilled breeze whisks past as I step to the top. Smith’s blue eyes find me immediately, the burning house reflecting off the side of the SUV he’s using as a shield.

Coward.

I raise my rifle and squeeze the trigger. Blood explodes from his right shoulder as he tries to escape into the driver’s seat. I follow in my scope, but my finger freezes when a figure steps out from the tree line.

The passenger window shatters, Smith’s brain matter painting the driver’s window from Dad’s bullet. Smith’s bloody, brown buzzed strands lay against the window.

I shiver through the adrenaline, wobbling a little on the tile. He’s dead. Finally fucking dead.

Another shot rings through the air, and excruciating pain explodes in my lower back. I stumble forward, losing my footing on the roof tiles.

“Rain!” Blade screams, as my shoulder hits the roof, the starry sky and orange glow blurring into a spiral. Agony cracks through my padded chest and across my back when I hit the second roof. I gasp in a painful breath, clawing at my surroundings to stop myself falling into the flames licking the edge of the roof. Warm blood continues to pour from the wound, soaking my shirt and jeans as I fight my depleting strength to lift myself onto all fours.

“Rain!”

Rome?

I draw a ragged breath and push off my right leg, the left now almost useless. Through my hazy vision, a dark figure emerges from the window before me. He reaches out, and I scream through my teeth, clasping his veined, tattooed forearm.

“Should’ve kept rolling, brother.” Blade’s smile and icy eyes emerge through the thick smoke.

Heat engulfs me as he pulls me through the window. Even when I’m wounded, the fucker isn’t gentle. He throws my body over his shoulder, and I grunt as flames lap against my already sweltering body, his arm coming around my legs then over my back, his hand colliding with the wound to keep pressure.

“Idiot,” he spits, hastily walking out of the room and down the burning stairs.

Smoke, thick and heavy, coats my lungs. “Wh-who was it?” I cough, then wince at the pain it elicits.

He barks out a cough. “I don’t know.”