Page 57 of The Devil

The one on the floor takes aim. I don’t know if Jet sees.

“Watch out!” I call out as the man’s gun fires almost simultaneously to Jet’s. His bullet misses but Jet’s doesn’t.

The Devil never misses his mark. I know this about him.

Jet approaches the other man who puts his uninjured hand up, his other arm hanging limply, bleeding from Jet’s bullet.

“Unfair fight,” he grunts out.

“Agree,” Jet says, tossing his weapon aside. The instant he does the other man grins, pulls a switchblade out of his back pocket.

If I can get to the gun, I can kill him. If I can just get to Jet’s gun.

The man lunges, Jet jumps left, the man comes at him again, Jet whirls. The man’s attention is on Jet, his back to me. I get to my feet, keep crouched, and move.

It’s just the distraction Jet doesn’t need because when he sees me, he takes his eyes off his opponent for an instant. A fucking millisecond. But that’s all the attacker needs to lunge, blade aimed at Jet’s stomach.

I scream.

Jet grunts.

The two come together, Jet holding him close, hand closed over the man’s bullet wound, squeezing, the other gripping the wrist of his knife-hand.

“Jet!” I’m on my feet as I hear another grunt. Jet’s dark eyes find mine, sweat glistening on his forehead, hair flopping down into his eyes.

I go for his gun, my hands shaking. I take aim.

Before I have to shoot, Jet shoves the man backward. The man stumbles, the knife still in his hand. That knife buried in his own gut. And I watch, stunned, as he drops to the floor, looking at his own wound as if he can’t believe it. Looking up at Jet as if this can’t be happening.

Jet stalks toward me his hand on his hip. He’s bleeding and he’s pissed.

“What did I tell you?” He demands, taking his gun and wrapping an arm around me. He hurries us out of the shop. “What the fuck did I tell you?” he barks. He half lifts me over the body in the way and we walk out, forgetting our umbrella. He stops, pulling my hood over my head as I stand in the pouring rain mute and shaking.

I may have grown up in the mafia world, but I’ve never experienced violence like this first-hand. He must see my shock.

“Hey. You okay?” he asks. “Amal? Look at me. Are you okay?”

Tears spring from my eyes, all the adrenaline leaving my body.

“Shit. Are you hurt?” Jet’s hands move over my body. He’s feeling for an injury.

“I’m okay. I’m okay.”

“Good. Let’s get to the car. You’re safe, come on now. Walk with me. They’ll likely send backup.”

“Who are they?” I ask as we hurry toward the SUV.

“The guard. Keys?”

I nod, stopping when we get to the vehicle. Digging into my pocket, I feel for the keys and am relieved I didn’t lose them in that chaos. Jet takes the keys, unlocks the door and opens the passenger side, lifting me in, even though I see it hurts him.

He closes the door, hurries to the driver’s side and once he’s in, he pulls the seatbelt across my lap and pushes the hood back from my head to look at me, scrutinizing my face.

“You’re cut.”

“It’s fine.”

I glance at his wound. “You’re bleeding badly, Jet.”