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“Noah, I can’t keep up.”
Shots begin to fly past our heads as we race down the stairwell. Noah’s much longer legs can easily take two or three steps at a time, but I can’t. I miss one and trip, causing us to slow down and give the men time to gain ground.
Noah suddenly pulls back as he simultaneously pushes me forward. Two blasts sound through the air as his large body slams me against the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of me. I recover just in time to see him grimace.
“Noah!” I scream, realizing he’s taken a hit.
“There’s no time,” he grinds out when I try to see where he’s been shot.
He grabs my wrist and continues to drag me down. As we run toward the exit, I see the crimson stain forming on his back, near his shoulder blade.
Before we can reach the steel door that leads to the first floor, he stumbles. Then, within seconds, he’s all the way down, gasping for breath.
“Get up!” I tug on his arm, but it’s no use. He’s too heavy. “Shit.”
I drop beside him, trying to turn him so that I can see his back better. But I have no idea what I’m looking at, because I’m an artist, not a doctor.
“Run,” he wheezes, his gaze dark and watery.
“No,” I grind through my teeth. “If you die, I’ll die with you.”
His eyes roll back as he loses consciousness. The men are one story above us, getting closer by the second. I tug the gun from Noah’s grasp and aim it at the stairwell.
Pulling back the hammer, I begin to shoot the moment I see legs. Round after round, I pump into the three goons who appear. Until I have no bullets left.
Then I throw myself protectively over Noah, waiting for the inevitable.
That’s when the door beside me bursts open, and in pours an army. To my surprise, they bypass us, going to battle with Gideon’s men.
No matter what I hear, I remain there, holding him tightly. There’s gunfire, grunts, and the clear sound of fists and crunching bone.
I’m not sure how long it goes on. Probably only minutes, though it feels like hours. But I do know the moment it’s over.
As if the decision is made simultaneously by both sides, it just stops. Some men retreat, others stay.
When I sense someone standing over us, I look up to find a fairly beaten man with shoulder-length hair and a scowl. “Are you Emily?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Luca. I’m a friend of Noah’s.” He crouches down and searches Noah’s throat for a pulse. When I see the relief in his eyes, I realize he really is a friend. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “Is Gideon dead?”
He shakes his head. “He got away.”
“He wanted to kill Noah.” I look down. “What if he succeeded?”
“Noah’s strong. He’ll be fine. But the police are probably on the way. You should get out of here or you’ll end up having to go in for questioning too.”
“I’m not leaving him,” I snap.
“Whoa.” He motions for me to calm. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“I’m not leaving him,” I repeat.
“What is it with you stubborn women?” He sighs and picks up his cell phone, dialing for help.
* * *
