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“What do you feel like eating today?” Akara asks, casual enough. I can’t detect any hint of worry in his voice.
Banks punches the button beside the closed elevator doors. His hand feels heavier on my shoulder.
“Um…if I could say a donut, I would,” I reply. “Fuck, I’m going to have the biggest baddest donut when we get back home.” Home meaning Philly.
After the Olympics.
“We’ll have a couple with you, mermaid,” Banks tells me, his voice a little stilted.
He’s less good at acting casual. Or maybe I can just tell that he’s more tensed than I can tell with Akara. Are they that concerned about the four men behind us? I brave a glance.
The men linger for the elevator. They aren’t in suits or button-downs. Just plain tees and jeans. No lanyards. No badges.
Banks sidesteps and blocks my view before the men can catch me staring. They wait for the elevator too, but this is probably the only elevator on this floor.
Beep.
The elevator light blinks. Metal doors slide open. I’m leading the pack, the first one to step inside. Akara follows me, but Banks remains out in the hall. My heartbeat spikes. What’s going on? He’s turned around and saying something softly to the four men.
“Kits,” I breathe, raw concern latching my voice. “Tell Banks to get in here. Tell him.”
Akara presses P1 on the panel of buttons. He turns to me, and our eyes lock for a fraction of a second but what feels like centuries.
“We’ll meet you down there,” he whispers.
“Kits.” I hear my sheer terror. And I almost reach for his hand, but I stop myself. My breath halts. No.
We can go.
The three of us.
We can leave together.
This isn’t happening.
They’re fine.
“I love you, Sul.” He slips out of the elevator. My throat dries and I pin myself to this spot. Do what he says. Do what he says. Don’t make their jobs harder.
Pulse racing, I convince myself those four guys are just there to talk to Akara and Banks. I convince myself that they’re waiting to catch an elevator ride to the lobby, and my bodyguards just don’t want them to share the same small space as me.
I convince myself of all these things.
The elevator doors begin to slide closed, and in an instant, my illusion ruptures.
All four men charge the elevator.
The last thing I see is Banks holding back the assault, and Akara buckling forward.
27
BANKS MORETTI
They want in the elevator—they want Sulli—and I’m a brick wall they’re never sledge-hammering through. 1 to 4, I’m expecting a knockout battle considering they outweigh me. The Fucker, the Bastard, the Shitbag, and the Prick.
I’m prepared for hell as the four of them crash forward, and with a scream inside my lungs—you’re not reaching Sulli—I deck the Fucker and physically restrain the Shitbag and Prick with hand thrusts and a fist to the gut.
The fourth guy, the Bastard—I’m not taking care of him.
Because Akara is.
I just notice my metamour at my side. He’s not with Sulli. Sulli is safe in the elevator. Give her enough time to escape. The three thoughts torpedo through my head.
2 to 4. It’s still an unfair fight anyway I toss it, but with my size and our combined skill, I like our odds a lot more.
That’s until I see Akara caving inward and blood pooling between his closed fingers.
I lose it.
Red with rage, I throw the strongest elbow to the Prick’s windpipe. He chokes and buckles at the knees. Hacking up a lung.
2 to 3.
I’m already tearing through two men to reach the Bastard that hurt Akara.
“Get back!” I yell.
Right as I reach the Bastard, he kicks Akara in the ribs, and then I thrash an uppercut to his jaw. He grunts and stumbles with a thunk into the wall. A bloodied knife clatters out of his hand.
I go to grab the weapon.
And from behind me, a bicep suddenly hooks around my throat.
Fuck.
He tries dragging me backwards. I try to turn out and throw the Fucker over my head. He’s too heavy. Just as strong, and I struggle to breathe. Mic yanks out of my ear—didn’t have time to call backup to meet Sulli.
She’s safe in the elevator.
Give her more time to escape.
Hyper-focused to my strained breath, to the noises of grunting and thrashing—I see another man, the Shitbag, rushing to the elevator.
No.
The doors are already slid shut, and the numbers tic down to parking. Before he reaches the button, Akara—with a hand to a wound—cuts off his path and slams his forehead into the Shitbag’s nose. Crack.
Blood pours.
2 to 2.
I’m choking for air, and I jam my elbow at the Fucker’s ribs, then hook his leg with my foot and sweep him. He lands on his back, taking me down. He’s close enough that I can smell the rotted garlic on his breath.
As I roll out, he grabs a hallway vase and smashes the glass against my head.
