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No more running.
I’ll have to fight my way out of this.
Adrenaline is crashing through me, making me feel hopped up on something. Switchblade guy lunges, and I dodge out of the way, tripping him up and sending him sprawling as I move.
He curses at me in Spanish, and the guy with the gun grabs me roughly and shoves me back against the wall, sending me stumbling into it so hard that my head hits the brick with an audible crack.
Pain splinters through my skull, and I blink, swallowing down bile as he takes a wide-legged stance in front of me. He levels the barrel of the gun right between my eyes, his own eyes wild and his chest heaving.
“Fucking cunt. You think you can mess with us and get away with it?”
The guy I tripped has recovered, and steps up behind his buddy, glaring at me. The third man is standing a little off to one side, his hands clenched into fists like he’d rather beat me to death than watch his friend shoot me.
My heart clenches, a burst of cold certainty chilling my skin.
Ivan St. James didn’t die today.
But I’m about to.
