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“That bastard and his crew killed a lot of my friends,” the man growls.
For a moment, I wonder who he’s referring to. I know my guys aren’t saints and have a surplus of blood on their hands. But they usually only go after members of POP.
And this guy, despite his cruel demeanor, is most definitely not a member. For one, no member of POP would want to get their hands dirty for a measly one million dollars. That’s pocket change for them. And two, most of this man’s clothing appears old and rugged. No designer tags or logos.
No, if I had to hazard a guess, I would say he’s an errand boy—someone POP uses to do the dirty work, so they don’t have to.
I think of the stone-faced guards I saw at the house Harvey took us to. No doubt, he’s one of them.
And also, no doubt, my guys started killing them off one by one, probably in an attempt to take out the hired muscle before they focus on the brain.
“If you kill him, people will come running,” I tell him, taking another step closer. “And you won’t get your one million dollars. Honestly, you’ll probably be dead.” Another step. “But you have me, so let’s just?—”
I lunge for him and grab the arm that holds the gun. I claw at his skin as the two of us struggle, my body flush against his. I’m finally able to dislodge the damn thing, and it falls to the ground, sliding underneath the sink.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck!
I half expected the gun to fire, like it does in the movies, and for my guys to hear it and come running.
But it doesn’t.
I’m on my own for this one.
“You stupid fucking bitch!” One of the man’s arm bands around my chest, and he hefts me off my feet. This time, I don’t bother to claw at his skin.
I reach into the pocket of my jeans, grab the bedazzled switchblade Zane bought me, and jab it into his thigh.
“Fuck!” he hollers as he releases me.
I spin around to face him, knowing that I can’t stop. I need to keep fighting.
With his leg injured and bleeding profusely, it takes very little effort on my part to tackle him to the ground. All I need to do is put pressure on his wound.
He buckles, screaming, and I straddle him, still holding the bloodied blade.
I don’t think, don’t hesitate, don’t allow myself to feel the deluge of emotions threatening to batter down my composure.
This guy stabbed Landon.
He tried to kidnap me.
He’s dangerous.
Something dark and insidious envelopes my mind, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. I feel like a wild animal who has suddenly been caged without any warning or explanation. I want to lash out. Make someone bleed.
My biological mother is The Divine One.
Fischer is a member of POP.
My uncle is an agent for the FBI.
Landon has been stabbed.
Landon has been fucking stabbed.
