Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“Be careful.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper but stall when I feel him taking the first step down before me and immediately follow his lead, holding onto the railing with my free hand. My head is spinning, and everything hurts, but he is so steady next to me that I speed up.
I’m so proud of him. Not only is he facing his fear for my sake, but kept his cool with Otto, and shot at him to save me.
His breathing becomes trembly, but the sound of sirens in the distance is a constant buzz, so we can’t stop. I can only hope my presence helps him down these stairs as much as his is helping me.
“Nothing to be sorry for. You came through,” Rowan whispers.
“Are you hurt?” I ask as I take another step only to discover that we’ve reached the bottom and are now free to go.
He speeds up, pulling me toward a cold draft, and then we’re outside, stepping over the grit scattered in front of the house. The icy air makes my face burn less, but we’re not out of the woods yet, and the siren is getting ever closer, like a hornet that needs to be kept out of the house by shutting the windows.
“I’m… good enough. Otto got a few punches in me.” He gently pulls on my elbow. “Now we turn.”
“Are there… people watching us?” I whisper, unsettled that I’m no longer in control, that if we got attacked now, I wouldn’t be able to do anything to help Rowan. We need to get away, regroup, and then go after Otto, but for that, I’ll need working eyes. I shiver when at least two vehicles rapidly brake not that far behind us. There’s shouting, but I’m focused on getting away, on not being noticed.
“No, we’re almost by the car…” Rowan says, but his voice drifts off.
Something’s wrong.
“What is it?” I urge him, stiffening. Is one of the cops approaching us on foot? I can only hear some commotion down the street, but who the fuck knows?
“Otto is being arrested,” Rowan mutters, guiding my hand to the car door.
A weight settles on my heart, heavier than the dead guy was when I tried to use him to my advantage. Rowan’s voice tells me that he understands what this means too.
Otto will be out of my grasp. He could spend days in jail, and we don’t have that long until Christmas. Unless he’s released on bail, which is unlikely, I will have no way to reach him before the deadline.
I sit in the car, feeling like a trapped panther with its claws cut at the knuckle.
I have failed.
Chapter 27
Rowan
It's a relief to be back home. Many bad memories are tied to the apartment I’ve lived in for the past two years, but it has running water for us to wash away all the blood, and for Saint to deal with his eyes.
We both needed a change of clothes, but that can’t change the fact that neither of us got any shut-eye. My head throbs now that the cocaine has left me with its own kind of hangover, so I make us coffee and approach Saint, who sits on the sofa with bloodshot, puffy eyes.
I’ve got my own set of bruises, which he kissed ever so gently after I washed off all the blood, but he hasn’t been very expressive since our lucky escape. I don’t want to prod at him since we’re both so tired, but soon enough, we will need to talk about our next steps.
“How are your eyes?” I ask, handing him the mug.
He shrugs and takes a generous sip. “Dry, but I’ll be fine. I just... it’s disappointing that I let him escape.”
I shake my head. “It’s disappointing that he dodged my bullet. And you dealt with the other guys. If I manage to learn a quarter of your skills, I’ll be golden.”
Saint downs his coffee so fast I worry about him scalding his throat, but he gets up with a determined look as soon as he’s done. “We can’t leave that thread hanging. Are you ready?”
“I… what? Ready for…?”
“We need to go watch the police station in case a Christmas miracle happens and he gets out.”
I’m not even halfway through my coffee, but Saint is already putting on his coat, so I don’t want to stall. “Is it really such a good idea?” I ask, even though I’m getting my boots.
“We don’t really have a choice. He could leave, go underground, and remain a threat. We can’t have that,” Saint tells me, stepping into his boots.
But I notice that he even pulls on his shoelaces with the force of someone trying to use them as an impromptu garrote.
If this is the first job in a while that he considers a failure, I don’t want to ask unnecessary questions to avoid stressing him out further. I might think going to sit in a car outside a police station at dawn is ridiculous, but he’s the one with years of experience.