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My eyes widen at the state of it as three guys, a similar age to us, go up against Daemon, who’s yielding a knife and looking much better off than each of them is.
Daemon’s foot smashes into one of their stomachs, sending him flying back toward me. I jump to the side, still unseen as I hide around the corner.
“Motherfucker,” Daemon grunts, and I look up to find the other two on him, the knife in his hand clattering to the floor.
“You said this place would be an easy hit,” one of the guys complains, but no one responds.
The guy on the floor not too far from me begins to get to his feet, and I spot my moment.
The second he’s halfway up, I wrap my arm around his throat in a chokehold—again, just like Daemon has shown me—and press the butt of my gun against his temple.
“Let him go, or this one doesn’t walk out of here with you.” My cold, hard voice cuts through the air and all eyes turn on me.
Daemon’s eyes widen in shock, but I’m pretty sure I also don’t miss them darken in desire.
The two guys who were beginning to overpower him do as I’m told and back away.
One of them reaches for his side, and I quickly realise that he’s got blood pouring from him. One look at the knife that went skidding across the floor tells me exactly what happened there.
“We didn’t come here for trouble,” the guy beneath my gun cries, his voice cracking with fear. “We thought it was empty.”
“So you were going to rob the place?”
“We’re sorry, okay?” the guy without the stab wound says, attempting to back toward the door that’s swinging open.
“We can’t just let you walk out of here now. What if you call the cops on us?”
“We won’t, man. We swear.”
With his eyes locked on the two who were attacking him, Daemon moves closer before dropping to his haunches and studying the guy in my hold.
I have no idea what he sees, but it seems to captivate him.
“Which one of you has the stash?” he asks, standing back up again and wiping his hands down his sweats like this is just an everyday occurrence for him, while I fight not to allow my hands to tremble. “WELL?” he booms when no one answers.
“I-I-I do,” the guy with the stab wound says.
“Show me.”
Slowly, he shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out a foil package.
“Drop it on the floor.”
His lips part to argue, but he must see the promise of death lingering in Daemon’s eyes and decides against defying him.
The small parcel lands right in the middle of one of the tiles.
“Did anyone send you here?”
“N-no. We’ve been watching the house on and off for months. It’s always empty.”
“Well, you certainly picked the wrong fucking day for it, huh?” Daemon mutters, his voice full of mirth.
A whimper rips through the room, and when I look at stabby, I find his face getting paler by the second as blood pours through his fingers, soaking into his already dirty jeans.
Reaching for a tea towel, Daemon marches toward me.
“I want your phones in the middle, too.”
