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“I already have. I just needed to lure you here and contain you for a limited time.”
Before I can get a word out, the front door to the bar bursts open and four guys dressed all in gray, oversized hoodies shielding their faces, storm on in.
Gatekeepers. Matthew Priest’s foot soldiers.
Adrenaline thrums white-hot through my veins, bolstering me, propelling me into action.
I react quickly, drawing my knife from my holster with my free hand and driving it into Lewis’s wrist, crucifying it to the table. It breaks his grip on my hand. He shrieks as I rip it out, vault onto the table, then thrust my combat boot into his face, knocking him into a heap on the floor.
“Everybody out!” one of the soldiers thunders over the continuous shrieking from Lewis, pulling his pistol and firing it into the air.
Screams erupt from the few patrons in the bar and they all rush through the exit, out into the night.
In the next moment, the same guy fires a shot wide of me and I hear a shriek from Lewis, followed by a thud. “Keep it down, or the next one will be fatal,” the guy warns him. The screaming from Lewis dies down to pained grunts through gritted teeth.
I jump off the table and make my way toward the soldiers, one cautious step at a time, spinning my knife in my hand for emphasis. I can’t draw another weapon right now, that will set them off. If it hadn’t been for Lewis, I would’ve had my gun out instead of the blade. I can still do a hell of a lot of damage, just slower. And against four armed men, that’s not an optimal situation to be in.
Although, it doesn’t escape my notice that they’re not training their weapons on me. In fact, the guy who fired earlier actually makes a show of holstering his weapon.
“Word is Priest wants me dead. I’ve served my purpose.”
The guy who appears to be the leader of this little group Priest has sent, eyes me with a sinister smirk. “We told your associate what we wanted him to believe.”
“So, we’re talking some painful torture first, right? Death coming only after you’ve had your fun?” As I continue spinning my blade in a clear warning of what I’ll rain down on them, a sudden light-headedness grips me.
I stumble in my step for a moment, before managing to right myself.
What the hell?
The leader smirks. “Too much to drink?”
Fuck. They spiked my martini. “How?”
“This place is in dire straits. A handout from Priest guaranteed the owner’s cooperation. The moment you placed your order, he brought out a new bottle from the back, if you recall, spiking it out of sight.”
Shit.
I force myself forward, toward the left, away from them.
My vision starts blurring, all too rapidly, and I smack into another table, trying to make my way toward the back door.
“Contain her,” the leader orders.
I feel them before they reach me.
And it’s all I have right now.
Instinct.
As the closest one goes for me, I thrust my leg back, my boot driving into his solar plexus. It has him stumbling back with a grunt.
But as he falls back, another one lunges at me, trying to make a grab for me. I dodge out of the way, but the momentum destabilizes me in my addled state, and I stumble into the bar, grasping at one of the stools for support.
Move! Move! Move!
The rumble of their heavy, rushed footsteps on the old hardwood floor has my already surging adrenaline skyrocketing. I’m sure it’s the only thing keeping me awake. It won’t last much longer, though. The sedative they gave me is a bitch of a thing.
Using the stool for purchase, I scramble to grab the whiskey bottle that one of the patrons left on the bar top. I only just grab it in time as one of them digs his fingers into my shoulder, trying to pull me back with him. Using what strength I have left, I spin rapidly, breaking his hold, then smash the bottle across the side of his head.
