Chapter 3 - Into the Fire
“Leaving? How? You can barely stand!” I shouted, though I kept my voice hushed. I threw the antibiotics at him, along with a bottle of water. “Take these. Now.”
Julian swallowed the pills dry. He moved with a stiff, agonizing slowness, but the fever seemed to be suppressed by pure, terrifying adrenaline. “There’s a service elevator at the end of the hall. It goes down to the basement parking garage. Do you have a car?”
“A 2010 Honda Civic that stalls if you look at it wrong,” I snapped, tossing a few changes of clothes and my mother’s polaroid into a backpack.
“It’ll have to do,” he said, forcing himself to his feet. He swayed, and I instinctively rushed to his side, letting him lean his heavy frame against me. The scent of him—blood, expensive cologne, and pure danger—enveloped me.
We slipped out the door just as I heard heavy boots stomping up the main stairwell. The Russians. They were doing a floor-by-floor sweep.
“Move,” Julian whispered against my ear.
We hurried down the dim hallway. The service elevator was ancient, a rusted metal cage used mostly by the maintenance guy. I yanked the grate open, shoved Julian inside, and hit the basement button. As the elevator jolted downward, a massive crash echoed from above. They had just kicked in the door to my apartment.
“They’re going to find the blood,” I breathed, staring at the floor numbers ticking down. “They’re going to know who I am.”
“You are under my protection now,” Julian said, his voice a low, gravelly promise. He reached out, his large, calloused hand gripping my trembling fingers. “Nobody touches what is mine.”
The possessiveness in his words sent a shiver down my spine. I was just a bartender, but in his eyes, I had just become property of the Rossi Syndicate.
We hit the basement. I half-carried him to my beat-up Civic, shoved him into the passenger seat, and climbed behind the wheel.
“Drive,” he commanded.
I peeled out of the garage, the tires squealing against the concrete. As we burst out into the daylight of the alley, a black SUV slammed on its brakes, blocking the exit. One of the men in leather jackets stepped out, drawing an automatic weapon.
“Get down!” Julian roared.
He leaned across the console, shattering the passenger window with the butt of his gun, and fired three rapid shots. The windshield of the SUV spider-webbed, and the man dropped to the pavement.
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“Floor it!” Julian yelled.
I slammed my foot on the gas, sideswiping the SUV with a sickening crunch of metal, and tore out into the chaotic Seattle traffic, leaving my old life burning in the rearview mirror.
