Page 94 of Freedom’s Inferno

Adrenaline burned through me, white-hot, blotting out the pain in my arms and the tremor in my body.

He tried to twist free, but I braced one knee against his spine and pulled harder, feeling the rosary bite deeper into his skin. His boots scraped against the floor, heels kicking out, but I didn’t stop. Every ounce of fear, rage, and exhaustion inside me poured into that moment until all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears and the frantic gurgle of his breath fighting to stay in his lungs.

Costa spun around, his gun swinging toward me. “What the fuck?”

“Lana!” Charlie shouted.

Before Costa could fire, Charlie lunged. He hit him around the middle, driving him backward. The gun went off in a deafening blast, but it missed, the bullet ricocheting off something metal in the corner. They went down hard, the two of them hitting the floor in a tangle of limbs and fury. The gun skidded across the concrete.

Costa slammed his elbow into Charlie’s ribs, but Charlie came back swinging, teeth gritted, eyes wild.

I held on to Tony, tightening the rosary, my hands slick with sweat and blood.

He clawed at the chain, trying to wedge his fingers between it and his throat, but I pulled harder, shifting my weight and forcing him off balance. His breath came in wet bursts. His face was purple, veins bulging.

My arms burned, but I didn’t stop. Not when his knees buckled, and not when his strength began to fade.

Charlie lunged for the gun.

Costa caught his arm mid-reach, dragging him back with a vicious twist that sent them both sprawling again. The sound of their struggle filled the room. Grunts, ragged breaths, the scrape of boots and fists striking flesh.

Charlie managed to land a hit to Costa’s jaw, but Costa retaliated, driving his elbow into Charlie’s ribs hard enough to make him grunt.

The two of them rolled again, locked in a violent, desperate tango. Costa got the upper hand, forcing Charlie onto his back and driving a knee into his sternum.

Charlie’s breath left him in a winded grunt.

Costa moved fast—too fast—his hand closing around the gun on the floor. He straightened over Charlie, chest heaving, and leveled the barrel directly at his face.

The chain bit deeper, the crucifix digging into the soft flesh of Tony’s throat as he thrashed against me. I could feel the resistance in him weakening, his movements turning jerky and uneven.

Charlie went still beneath Costa, hands raised, eyes locked on the barrel inches from his face.

My palms burned, the fine links of the rosary cutting into my skin, opening thin lines that stung every time I pulled tighter.

Tony made a wet, rasping noise that didn’t sound human, his boots scraping uselessly against the concrete. His fingers clawed at the chain one last time before they slipped away, falling limp. The tremors in his body slowed, then stilled altogether.

I didn’t let go right away. I kept pulling even after the fight left him, until my arms gave out and I collapsed backward, the chain still wrapped around my trembling hands.

My gaze snapped back to Charlie.

Costa’s finger moved to the trigger.

No.

The crack of a gunshot split the air.

Costa’s body jerked, his expression frozen in surprise as the color drained from his face. A dark red stain bloomed across the white of his shirt. He gasped, droplets of blood bubbling from his mouth and catching on his lip. The gun in his hand tipped sideways. Costa swayed, then slumped, his body rolling off Charlie and hitting the concrete with a heavy thud.

Charlie lay on the floor, chest rising and falling in sharp, even bursts. His eyes were wide and unblinking as he turned his head toward the direction of the shot.

I followed his gaze.

Elliott stood just inside the threshold, gun still smoking where he held it at his side.

The silence that followed was a weighted blanket, pressing against my ears.

Elliott tucked his weapon inside his jacket and crossed the room, crouching beside Costa.