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Julian takes a deep breath, and all his muscles relax. It’s like the prospect of violence calms him down. Me, I’m all geared up, can barely keep from bouncing up and down on my toes.
“Ready,” he says.
We move together through the shadows, like we’ve done this a million times, like we’ve been partners for years, and then he disappears around the corner of a shipping container. I shout, drawing PacSyn’s attention. No guns tonight, which is the smartest decision those assholes have ever made; the last thing either of us wants is more attention from the Feds. There’s already talk of mobilizing a federal guard on the port after the Castellani battle the other night.
No, tonight they’ve come armed like some street gang: chains, knives, baseball bats. I flex my fingers as five of them surround me. “Batter up,” I growl.
The PacSynners run at me, swinging their weapons wildly. I bob and weave, slipping their attacks with ease. Maybe Julian’s fighting style has made an impression on me; usually I just brick-wall ’em.
With a quick jab, I undercut one, send him reeling backward. As the rest of them pause, surprised, it’s my turn to play. I charge forward, fists swinging, the satisfying crunch of bone beneath my knuckles. These fuckers are no match for me. I’ve been trained by the best, and I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. Ienjoyit. But even as I beat them down, I can hear the sound of panic rising from their men further back.
“Someone’s here!”
“Over h—“ The words cut out. Julian must have reached him.
I take out my last guy with a jab to the jaw, and look around. Most of them are still alive, though badly beaten. I stand over one and kick him to get his attention. “You tell Chuckles that I’m getting real tired of his bullshit. That’s two strikes. He doesn’t get a third. Understand?”
The guy groans, coughs, and nods.
Julian appears from the shadows, slightly disheveled but otherwise unscathed. “Good work,” I tell him, and he shrugs.
“Child’s play.”
And then he blinks.
That’s what makes me look closer. Julian rarely blinks, those strange pale blue eyes stare and stare like stone, and blinking always seems to be a conscious decision on his part—kind of like the assholery.
But he blinks now, as something darts over his eyes, positions itself on his woolen-covered forehead, quivering slightly. A red dot.
A laser sight.
“Shit.” I throw myself at him, shoving him to the ground at the same time as I hear the shot slam into the shipping container.
CHAPTER18
LEO
The bullet hitsright where Julian’s head was a split-second ago. The force of my push knocks Julian backwards and he falls heavily onto the concrete dock, and then lies there, unmoving.
I crawl over to him, keeping my head down, my chest cold with something unfamiliar: panic. “Fuck, Julian, are you okay?” My voice is a whisper, shaking. When I lift his head I feel no blood, but doesn’t open his eyes. “Shit, come on, wake up, man.” I shake him gently, but there’s no response. Panic rises into my throat, threatening to suffocate me.
Then, slowly, Julian stirs. His eyes flutter open, a blank expression on his face as he looks up at me. Relief floods through me. He takes a deep breath, inhaling through his nose. “Leo,” he says softly.
“Someone’s shooting at us,” I tell him quietly. “One shot. I pushed you out of the way.”
“Get off me,” he says, totally neutral.
I roll off. “Keep your head down,” I spit, as he gets into a crouch.
He shakes his head, hissing when he reaches up to touch the back of it. “We need to get out of here,” he mutters, but when he tries to move, he falls onto his hands and knees.
He keeps trying, though. Crawling.
“Stop,” I bark. I don’t care if we’re overheard. Someone knows exactly where we are anyway. Someone with a high-powered scope rifle, judging by the size of the hole in that shipping container.
Julian looks over at me, expressionless, and stops.
“Sit tight. I want to see where that shot came from,” I tell him. “Then we can make our move. Get out of herewithouthaving our brains spilled.”
