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Time to bail and regroup.
Keeping the gun on them, I slowly back away as they leisurely step forward. Once I am next to the rail, I put the gun away and smirk at them. “Tell the old bastard if he’s alive, he’ll have to kill me if he wants me.” With that, I grab the rail, haul myself over it, and leap to the ground below. I roll as I land, hearing them swear. Getting to my feet, I glance up to see the others racing down the stairs, bar the biggest who takes a running jump off the balcony to follow me.
Shit.
I start to run, but they chase, and they are good. I don’t risk the bike, knowing the seconds it would take to get on it would cost me and their car can clearly out speed me. No, it’s better to lose them on foot, and there are more places to hide.
I wind through backstreets, around buildings, and over fences. All the while, they are hot on my heels. I’m usually the fastest person, so fast no one can ever keep up, but they do. Running and hiding isn’t working, but I hate that choice anyway, so fighting it is.
I swerve into the street I’m in. Cars honk as I disrupt traffic, picking the alley I want. It’s a dead end, so they can’t sneak up behind me, and it gives me a better chance of winning.
I turn with my gun in my hand, aim it at the mouth of the alley, and wait. My heart rate slows, and my body relaxes and numbs just as it does whenever I fight, kill, or hunt.
I wait, my eyes open and unblinking. Between one heartbeat and the next, a head pops around the alley. With a slow breath, I fire, and it ducks back with a curse as I wait for the next one to try it. I can do this all day.
“Fuck!” someone yells. “She almost got me.”
“I missed? What a shame. I won’t with the next one!” I call with a shit-eating grin.
“She’s crazy,” comes a low mutter, the words carrying on the wind.
“Too right, so just leave, and I promise not to kill you for the insult,” I retort.
It goes quiet then, and a hand pops around the alley. I shoot, and it yanks back with a groan. “Wait! Just wait and look!” comes a stern order. The hand comes back, slower this time, to produce a white piece of fabric that looks like . . . yep, underwear. “See? A white flag. We don’t want to hurt you—”
“Shame, I want to hurt you,” I reply, and I hear a laugh before there’s a smack and a groan. My lips twitch involuntarily, and my hands begin to shake from holding my shooting stance. I can’t keep this up much longer. I either need to get on with this or drop the gun. I know which option I’ll choose.
The only way I’ll drop this gun is when they are dead at my feet or if they shoot off my fucking arm.
“Still alive, hotties?” I call with a grin.
“Yep! Just thinking about your ass in that leather—”
I shoot the wall, and there’s a chuckle, then a deeper voice asks, “What will make you drop the gun?”
“Nothing you have,” I reply conversationally, but I know if I keep shooting, the cops will come, and I don’t want that. It seems they don’t either because I hear them talking quickly amongst themselves.
“Look!” one yells. “We know you. Your name is Novaleen Davis. You are twenty-seven years old.”
I stiffen at that. “Public knowledge!” I shout.
“Your father was not the man everyone says he is. He experimented on kids . . . on you. He hurt you. I’m betting he even locked you up. Am I right? Shocked you? Tested you?”
I gawk silently.
“He did it to us too. He performed so many experiments, they blended together. I hated him so fucking much, hated what he made me into, what he made me do.”
“Who are you?” I demand.
There’s a moment of silence and then a man steps out. He’s confident I won’t shoot him, which I don’t. “We are like you. Experiments. We are the other children.”
My arm drops as I stare at him. “Other children?”
“You didn’t think you were the only one, did you?” he asks, arching his eyebrow as the others spread out behind him. Their expressions remain serious as they stand in line, watching me with knowledge only someone my father experimented on could know.
“There were others, Novaleen, so many others. They are all dead now . . . apart from us.”
“What do you want from me?” I demand, voice shaking. My mind is overloaded with questions and concerns, but I focus on what I can control and quickly pick the most important question. “Why are you following me?”
