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This was the killer. The man who took down the deadliest criminals in the world.
He yanked on his cargos, strapped a knife to his thigh, then bent and reached between the mattress and box spring. He pulled out a handgun, and there was a click as he checked the chamber.
We were fucking on top of a gun? I sat up, clutching the sheets to my chest. He moved toward the door in his bare feet.
“Get in the bathroom and lock the door,” he ordered.
“It’s probably just Addie, Vic.”
“I don’t live on probables, Macayla. Get in the bathroom and lock the door. Don’t come out. Understand? No matter what you hear.”
I nodded and quickly scrambled off the bed. I grabbed my panties and pulled them on, then the first piece of clothing I could find. It was one of Vic’s T-shirts on top of his bag, and it hung to midthigh and was so huge, it looked as if I was wearing a black garbage bag.
More pounding.
“Open the fuckin’ door, Gate,” a voice boomed. It was ragged and raspy sounding, as if it had been damaged by a hockey stick to the throat.
My body froze and my eyes widened. Vic lowered his gun and shoved it into the back of his cargos.
“Where the fuck is my sister?” my brother yelled.
Oh my God. Ethan.
“Stay here,” Vic ordered. He grabbed another T-shirt from his bag and tugged it on before making his way to the bedroom doorway.
I ignored him and followed. He stopped and turned, grabbing my forearm. “Babe, let me deal with him.”
I jerked my arm from his grip. “It’s my brother.”
“Yeah, who’s raging mad. Let me talk to him first.”
“Why is he so mad?”
Vic didn’t say anything, but there was uncertainty in the depths of his eyes. And that scared me. Because Vic was never uncertain. “Vic,” I whispered.
More pounding. “Open the door or I’ll break it the fuck down.”
He released me and went down the stairs toward the front door. I followed, but stopped halfway, my hand tightening around the handrail to keep myself steady.
Vic clicked the deadbolt and opened the door.
Ethan’s fist plowed into Vic’s cheek. It was hard enough to send Vic staggering back a few steps.
Ethan charged. His body slammed into Vic’s, and they both crashed into the wall.
I flew down the stairs. “Ethan. No,” I shouted. “Stop.”
Ethan either didn’t hear me, or didn’t care, as he continued to pound into Vic. Fear grabbed hold as he continued to pummel Vic, shot after shot.
Vic never once returned the blows. He let Ethan hit him over and over again. Why wasn’t he fighting back or protecting himself?
There was no question Vic could take Ethan down in seconds. Ethan may be a fighter in the rink, but Vic was military. Special Forces. He could easily knock out my brother.
So, why wasn’t he fighting back?
I ran over to them, the smell of blood pungent.
“Damn it, Macayla. Stay back,” Vic barked, just before Ethan’s fist slammed into his cheek again.
