Protect yourself, Rue. Make sure the weapon is cocked, and take the disabling shots. You know he will do it to you, or worse, without a moment’s hesitation if you let him.
As I made sure the gun was cocked, I noticed how familiar it felt. This was no street gun. This was a sophisticated piece. A gun I’d used before.
I heard the terrible cracking noise against my spine before I felt the pain. My knees buckled and I fell to the ground, face first. Either Rick had slammed me with a wooden two-by-four, which had splintered in half, or he’d used a steel beam and the cracking noise was my vertebrae shattering. But how had he gotten behind me?
I checked my senses to make sure I still had the gun. Its cold steel was still wrapped in my white-knuckled clutch. I looked over my shoulder. Rick’s gaunt, pockmarked face loomed above me. And I knew he was hell-bent on making sure it was the last face I ever saw.
“Stop!” I screamed. I rolled over on my back, crunched up, locked my arms out in front, and raised the gun between my legs. “I’ll shoot!”
He raised another two-by-four above his head, ready to destroy me.
I had no choice. He was going to kill me.
I aimed for the largest target area and pulled the trigger. The gun sounded like a bomb exploding in the vast space. His chest ripped open and his body lost momentum. As though in slow motion, he dropped to his knees and the life drained out of his eyes. He would never fight again.
The smoke from my gun rose, just as the dust particles under his body mushroomed from his fall, swirling with the sudden draft of wind.
I gagged on the taste of bile in my throat and grimaced as the tinny smell of blood and gunpowder choked the air out of my lungs.
I fell back, disgusted and disoriented.
Until I remembered the baby-faced gangster—who’d said he’d kill us all before he went back to prison.
I looked up and he was already running past fallen boxes and debris—toward Alana. He was going to play his last card and use her to bargain for his freedom.
I pushed myself up with renewed strength and chased after him, ignoring the splintering pain attacking my spine. I leapt over Rick’s body and willed my drugged body to run faster than the pudgy threat. He couldn’t fight me while I had a gun, but he could stomp on Alana’s head or whip out a knife and stab her a few times before I got off a shot. I already knew he was going down swinging—or stabbing.
“Just wait, I don’t want to kill you!” I yelled after him. I don’t think he heard me, or believed me, because he ran faster. In my mind, I begged him to stop, to act rationally, to give me his phone so I could call for help, and to try his chances again at the failed justice system that allowed him to be on the street in the first place. Or just make a play for the exit.
“I won’t shoot you if you leave!” I screamed while gasping for breath. “Please don’t do anything stupid!”
My fears were confirmed the moment I saw him pull something metallic from his boot and go for Liam’s lifeless body.
I stopped running to take aim—for the shoulder this time. I couldn’t shoot a man in his back, and I didn’t want to kill him.
Then I heard my dad again: You don’t have a sight on this pistol. You’re too far away, and it’s too dark. If you miss, he’ll kill Liam. You have to do it.
The truth seemed to sting my eyes. I pinched them shut for a millisecond to clear my vision and regain my resolve. Then I corrected my aim, took the shot between his broad shoulder blades, and held my breath for impact.
In midstrike, he dropped the dagger, dropped to the ground, and dropped off the face of the world forever.
A full minute must have passed before I allowed myself to exhale, because dizzy didn’t begin to explain the fainting sensation welling up inside me. I looked down to the weapon in my hand. Its custom-polished stainless nickel-plate finish shined up at me, and I noticed for the first time that it was a Glock 30, .45-caliber handgun. The kind Dad had carried as his off-duty weapon. The one he carried with him during SWAT operations as a backup. I turned over the heel to check for an engraving. There it was—his initials: J. R.
I dropped the gun like it was a hot coal. If this was my dad’s gun, it must’ve been taken off of his body by whoever killed him. I didn’t even know it was missing. This couldn’t actually be Dad’s. No, it couldn’t be.
He spoke to me urgently this time: Rue. It’s not over. They called someone. Pick up that gun. Never drop your weapon.
“Nice work,” a foreign male voice whispered in my ear, as arms clutched me from behind. “You just saved me a load of money.”
My heart sank as I realized my mistake. Maybe my fatal mistake.
I couldn’t see the new threat’s face, but I could see Liam’s and he was finally conscious. I wondered how long he had been awake and if he’d seen me kill the monster lying dead over his legs. By the wild look in his eyes, I was sure he had.
“No!” he screamed through his gag, trying to fight the bonds and get the dead body off him.
“Oh, I see,” the scratchy voice breathed into my ear. “We have a boyfriend. Must’ve gotten in the way. I don’t really deal in the boy market, but I’m sure we’ll make do.”
Instinct took over again, and I thrust my elbow into his ribs, twisted so his grip loosened, and—with every ounce of force I had left—slammed both hands down onto his wrists to break free. Now that I was facing him, I could go for the “sweet spots.” I faked a kick to sweet spot number one—the groin—and got him in sweet spot number two—the eyes. I clawed at his face with my fingernails, and he screamed, “Kuradi lits! Kuradi lits!” Which sounded like he was saying, “Karate tits!” or “Karate lips!”—but probably meant something very different in his language, and nothing friendly, for sure.
With his hands now guarding sweet spot two, I promptly went for number one, releasing the kick of all kicks to the only place that matters. It connected with a crunch, and a guttural groan.
Followed by a protracted slide and click.
I didn’t make that sound. A cold circle of metal pressed against my temple.
“Try something and I shoot,” a different voice beside me warned.
“Ruby, don’t move,” Liam called out, panic in his voice. Somehow he’d loosened the gag enough to speak. “Don’t fight.”
Before I’d be able to swing around and make a play for the gun, my life would be over.
I dropped my throbbing head and listened for the answer. Where was my dad’s voice now?
Gone. Just like my life in a few moments.
A backhanded knuckle-slap to my face cut me out of my ridiculous search for the voices in my head.
“Insolent brat,” the first man spewed through his forest of facial hair. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handgun—relieving the other man of gun-pointing duty—and stroked the side of my face with the barrel. “Your spirit will be broken soon enough.”
“No,” I said, coiling my springs. “I won’t let you. I’d rather die than be handed off to one of your disgusting buyers.” I tasted another round of fresh blood in my mouth and looked for the gun I’d so stupidly dropped. It was my one and only chance to survive.
“Please,” Liam pled from the floor. “Ransom us. You don’t have to sell anyone. My dad is filthy rich. He’ll pay you whatever you want. I swear. You’ll get far more that way.” I didn’t know Liam’s dad was rich. He had to be lying. But it didn’t matter—this was good. Liam was distracting them. Maybe I could find that gun in the dark and—
Thump. The violent sound caused me to turn. The second guy, with his stupid ’80s mullet, was standing over Liam, kicking him in the side. With his hands tied behind his back, Liam couldn’t defend himself. He was coughing and grimacing for air. The Mullet was going to break Liam’s ribs or puncture a lung.