Nick takes a step toward us, blocking my view of the fight behind him. He hasn’t said anything. Why hasn’t he said anything? I push the rising panic down and scrabble for calm. Nick’s thinking. That’s all this is. Tris hasn’t let go of my throat. His hand squeezes hard, choking the air right back out, and my heart’s pounding in my ears. He shoves the gun into the side of my head. “Nice try,” he says. Before I can recover, he lets go of my throat, grabs first one wrist, then the other, yanking them behind my back and cutting off my only route to a weapon.
Memories of Isaiah binding my arms and legs, his knife slicing into my skin, threaten to overwhelm me. I shut my eyes, the sounds of Constantine’s fight echoing in my ears. He can handle himself. He’s not my concern. I need a plan. An escape route. Isaiah rendered me helpless. As long as the safety stays on, I’m not this time.
Tris is behind me, and while he’s holding my wrists, I can move my hands. His legs are spread, knees on either side of my calves, evening out the height difference a bit. I hope it’s enough.
“Drop the gun.”
My eyes snap open. The first lick of fear dances up my spine as Nick stands in front of me, gun pointed at Tris. I shake my head, heedless of the oily metal pressed to my temple. Bad plan. Horrible plan. He’s got more to lose than I do. I won’t have him shot because he got in the middle of my problem.
A click, and Nick’s flicked the safety off. The fear races higher. Tris is a highly trained law enforcement officer. If I do anything now, the risk he’ll squeeze the trigger is much, much higher than it was twenty seconds ago.
Another click. The safety on Tris’s gun. There’s nothing standing between me and a bullet in the brain now. I bite my tongue. This isn’t happening. I’m not on my knees with Nick in front of me, gun trained on a police officer. He said so himself; he won’t be able to bury Tris’s death. Someone will have to pay.
Tris laughs. Laughs. “You want to test your reflexes against mine?”
“I want you to let Cass go. Isaiah’s the one who wants her. You don’t think he’ll be angry if you get to her before he does?”
“I think he’s a bit busy at the moment.” But Tris moves the barrel away from my head, and I don’t bother hiding my sigh of relief.
Then I go for his balls.
I sag into him, hands spread as wide as I can make them, and take advantage of his surprise and grab him, squeezing hard. As he releases my wrists, his gun goes off and I roll away from him, going for the knife strapped to my ankle.
Nick staggers, drawing my attention, and I watch in horror as he collapses in slow motion, his legs folding under him like a newborn deer’s. “Nick!” The fear takes over completely, and I forget the knife, crawling over to him. He’s propped himself up on one elbow, his dazed expression barely visible in the dark. I run my hands over his chest and arms, searching for the wound and not finding it. “Where is it?” I mutter.
“Leg,” he rasps. I grope down his right leg, snatching my hands away when they come into contact with wetness. I’m dimly aware of the sounds of Constantine’s continued fight, the sounds of flesh slapping flesh broken only by their grunts of exertion.
Hands like titanium close around my upper arms, and I’m pulled to my feet. A violent, sudden fury crashes into me. Tris and his fucking gun. It’s always about the guns. Their absolute immediacy, the lack of accuracy that causes damage nonetheless. That gun needs to go.
He releases one arm to shift his hold, and I jump, his chin connecting with the top of my head. Ignoring the pain radiating through my skull, I free a knife from its sheath and dive to the ground as another shot rings out. I roll onto my back as Tris lunges for me. I plunge the knife into his thigh, yanking it free when he stumbles. Five seconds to rise to my knees, and I strike again, this time at his groin.
His gun drops to the ground, and I scramble for it as he does his own slo-mo collapse, staggering sideways. He lands on top of the gun. I shove my hand under him. He’s a dead weight, pressing down on my hand as I try to wrap it around the butt of the gun. I barely jostle him as I slide it free.
I flick on the safety and get to my feet. I back away slowly until I’m at Nick’s side. Tris hasn’t moved, just stares up at the sky, one hand at his groin, his chest lifting in short, sharp pants. I drop to the ground beside Nick and lay the gun next to me.
He’s taken off his shirt and pressed it to the wound. I cover his hands with mine, applying even more pressure. “Hey,” I say softly. “Tell me what to do.”
“Get something to tie this off with. Con will call a crew to clean this up.”
As I head for the house, the lack of noise and movement from Isaiah’s section of the yard hits me, and I glance over.
The world stops.
The two unidentified men are lumps on the ground, neither of them moving. Isaiah lies a few feet away. Constantine’s kneeling at his side. My feet move of their own volition, leading me to Isaiah. Constantine looks up, his expression blurred in the shadows. “I’m sorry, Cass.”
I sink down and bend over Isaiah’s prone form. He’s still breathing. He has to be. His chest has to be moving. I place a hand on it, willing it to move.
It doesn’t.
* * * *
Isaiah is dead.
Killed by a stray bullet. Shot from his own bodyguard’s gun, according to Constantine.
I stare out the window at the passing streetlights, Nick’s hand clasped in mine. We had to leave the bodies where they fell, the scream of approaching sirens ticking down the seconds to discovery.
This is why I don’t use guns.
The car hits a bump in the road, and Nick hisses, his hand tightening on mine reflexively. “You should have left the knife,” he says.
I pull my attention from the street. “Huh?”
“The knife. You should have left it with the body.”
It’s still clutched in my other hand. I need to clean it. My fingers are sticky with drying blood. Nick’s. Tris’s. Isaiah’s.
So much blood.
“No.” I hear myself as though I’m at the end of a tunnel. “I might need it again.” I wipe the blade on my jeans and release his hand to slip it into the sheath.
Isaiah is dead. The monster should be sated. Instead, it’s confused. There’s no adrenaline rush. No crushing need to push forward.
All these weeks since Turner’s murder, I’ve been betting on this one last death to set everything right. To take my crooked, turned-around world and reorder it into some semblance of structure I can understand. This was supposed to end with my knife slicing a brilliant, gruesome smile across Isaiah’s throat.
It didn’t account for the possibility he might die some other way.
The car hits another bump, causing Nick to swear under his breath. Nick. He hasn’t left me. Not after everything I’ve done or how carelessly I’ve treated him. He was shot because of me. It’s my turn to be there for him, to hold his hand and tell him everything will be all right.
The words won’t leave my mouth. I can’t get them out. Maybe my tongue has finally developed a mind of its own and knows any reassurances I could offer would just be a lie.
I can’t lie to Nick.
I lean over his leg to inspect the makeshift bandage. His bloody shirt is held in place by a length of twine I found in the kitchen. It’s not very sturdy, and the cloth is dark and damp to the touch. While I’m pretty sure the bullet missed the femoral artery, I don’t like that he’s still bleeding. “How much farther?” I ask Constantine.