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Kash would not do that. He had carried me. He had led me places. He had guided me. But he never dragged me somewhere, not in the state he had left me.
“The street exit?” Fitz’s question was directed to Not Kash.
“Yeah.”
God. Even his bark was like Kash, the perfect pitch.
I tried to eye him better, to pick up any differences in the face, but he kept his face turned down and away. He was keeping it at an angle on purpose, but it was good. He was good at this, and a chill went down my spine, adding to my alarms.
I had to say something.
How did I know him? And why was that bothering me so much?
But Fitz was going to the exit door. He was opening it. There was a vehicle parked out there. I could see the red brake lights on. Someone was in there and waiting, and this was a setup.
I couldn’t wait any longer, so I spoke, my voice coming out calm. “I know you’re not Kash.”
He froze.
I saw Fitz freeze, and thenbam!Both sprang into action.
It took a second for me to comprehend what happened, because I expected Fitz to take him down. That didn’t happen. In fact, pretty much the opposite.
Fitz’s hand went up, but he went to his radio. He had the transmitter button pressed and was raising the unit to his mouth when Not Kash took Fitz down. Not the other way. Not the way I thought, because I fully expected it to be a done deal. I’d say the words andwham!, Not Kash would be unconscious at my feet.
Notwhat happened.
I was still processing that when he looked at me.
Oh.
Crappers.
Now it was just me, him, that door, and whoever was on the other side of it.
“Ahhh!” A bloodcurdling scream came from me, followed by, “Helllpmeee!”
His face twisted in fury and he began reaching for me.
I dove, and in the back of my mind, I now understood why Fitz went to radio for help—because he needed help! BecauseIneeded help. I dove for his radio; there was a gun in his holster—Fitz’s jacket had opened in his fall—and I reached for that, too.
In my head, I was going to dive, grab both, duck my head. I’d complete a full roll, like I’ve seen volleyball players do in their matches. Why I was remembering volleyball matches from high school, I had no clue, but anyway, that’s not what happened.
First, Not Kash slammed his foot down on the radio.
Okay. I’d work with that, because it took him a second away from where he could’ve used that kick to knock me unconscious. Instead, he stepped on the radio and kicked it away.
And two, the gun was still in his holster. I grabbed it, tried to yank it free. It didn’t come free. It remained in the holster.
How did these get free?
But then Not Kash was reaching for me, and that’s when he messed up.
His touch was gentle. That told me he didn’t want to hurt me. I could work with that. So when he went gentle, I became asnarling dirty street fighter. Or I was doing my best impression, because then I finally did finish my roll (just not with the gun or radio), and the movement yanked me out of his hold. But instead of scrambling and running, I twisted around and went for his ankle.
I was the personification of an ankle biter.
I bit his ankle. Literally.
