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The limo jerks over a pothole and slams to a stop alongside a steel storage container. I can’t see a difference from this container to the next, but stopping in this exact spot feels purposeful. Scrambling for a plan, I open the minifridge. It’s empty.
The car behind us pulls up with a crunch of tires against gravel. Two men get out and stalk toward us with a ready-to-bust-heads set to their shoulders.
Chances they’re friendly? Zero.Each man heads toward a different back door of the limo. Won’t be easy to fend off two attacks, but it’s even harder to coordinate two attacks. One of them will be first. I watch the men, noticing the one who looks quicker, more anxious. I ready myself at that side.
The driver releases the door locks with aclickand both doors fling open, but not simultaneously. The faster man comes inside, leading with his gun.
Mistake.
I grab his wrist, pull, and lock his gun arm against my chest.
He tries to jerk free, but not before I get a shot off at the second guy, who jumps back and away. He’s obviously the brains.
The guy whose arm I’m holding yanks again, but I secure my feet. Using the leverage, I jerk him forward while simultaneously slamming the back of my head into his face.
Crack.The guy’s nose breaks like an egg and blood gushes out and across my hair.
Gusher Guy makes a whiny, distressed sound, and releases his gun. I grab the gun and let the guy go. He crumples onto the gravel.
Sliding out, I roll away from Gusher. When I get a good look at his face, my stomach rolls reflexively. His nose is bent to one side. The limo takes off.
Heart pounding, head pounding from Gusher’s face, I scan for the second guy—the smart one—but I don’t see him. The squeal of tires and the smell of burnt rubber alerts me to the limo changing directions, back at me. I don’t even have time to run when I notice Gusher is up and charging at me.
I’m hyperaware of the amount of pressure I put on the trigger—next to nothing—the snap of the shot—loud—the recoil that rides up my arm—sharp and painful.
Gusher goes down, permanently. The limo, a few tons of pure black steel, bears down on me. In one seamless move, I raise the weapon and shoot at the tires. When they don’t blow, I run.
My only escape is up, but none of these containers are climbable. I could climb the crane, but it’s parked on the other side of this wall of containers, stacked end-to-end.
Scanning an option, I see a rusted orange ladder on the side of an orange crate. I sprint for it. The limo driver stops, honks his horn, revs his engine, then takes off after me.
In a running leap, I latch onto the ladder with my right hand. My body slams against steel. My arm jerks. My fingers bleed as the rusted metal slices them. Adding my other hand, I scramble up the ladder.
At the top, I pull myself onto the container, flip over, then take out my cell.
Below, the limo guns its engines again.
I look down. The limo is headed straight for—
I flatten out and hold on.
There’s a crunch of steel, a slam that rocks my body, and a vibration that shakes my skull.Stupid fuck.What good did that do?
Bringing my phone back up, I roll onto my back and see Bad Guy Number Two—the smart one, smarter than I gave him credit for—inside the cab of the crane. Before I can blink, he fires the Taser and lights me up.
47
JUSTICE
The thin spikes of my Louboutin pumpstap, tap, tapagainst the marble flooring of the front corridor. The sound echoes in the wide hall as I make my way to the gym.
With each step through the main corridor of the Mantua Home, the party energy increases, electric anticipation warmed by the promise of delicious food, rich conversation, bubbly drinks, with an anything-can-happen vibe.
Though it’s early—barely eight—the house is a hive of activity. The serving staff, dressed in black-and-white uniforms, familiarize themselves with the home’s layout by carrying trays of food into the gym, where, for now, all the action is. It’s set up with lights and music like a high school dance to delight the kids. When all the guests arrive, the main celebration will be out back on the expertly manicured yard and lavish patio.
My younger sisters flit around here and there, many in flowing ball gowns, but some in shorter dresses. Three in tuxedos—well, Tony, Rome, and the youngest girl in Vampire Academy wear the tuxes.
Everyone has their marching orders: dance, mingle, strike up conversations. Ask questions. Meet eyes. Shake hands. Be polite. Don’t leave the party without permission. That’s typical; Momma is big on courtesy to guests. No wallflowers here.
