Page 9 of Break For Me
I close my fist around the blade, trapping it in my own meat. His eyes go wide. He tries to yank the knife back, but I’ve got him. I grip the steel and pull him forward into a headbutt.
My forehead connects with the bridge of his nose. Bone crunches. It’s a wet, heavy sound. His head snaps back. His grip on the handle dies. I rip the knife free from both his hand and my own palm.
The blond is back up, bleeding from the shoulder, reaching for his fallen Makarov. I throw the knife. I’m not a knife fighter; I’m a brawler. But at four feet, you don't need to be an expert.
The blade hits him in the thigh. It buries to the hilt. He goes down howling.
The big one is staggering, blinded by the blood pouring from his nose. I grab him by the back of his skull and drive his face into the corner of the wall.
The plaster craters. I do it again. His body goes slack. I let him drop like a sack of grain.
The blond is still crawling toward his gun, dragging the leg with the knife in it. I step on his hand. The small bones in his fingers compress and snap under my boot. He makes a sound like air escaping a punctured tire.
I pick up the Makarov and press the cold muzzle into the base of his skull.
"How many more?" I growl.
He gasps, blood pooling under his chest. "Odin," he wheezes.One.Downstairs.
I pistol-whip him across the temple. His head bounces off the carpet and he goes out.
The hallway falls silent, except for the hiss of a busted light and the sound of my own lungs rattling. Each breath feels like dragging a rake through my chest.
I look at my left hand. It’s a ruin. The cut across my palm is a deep red mouth. I can see the white flash of the flexor tendon through the gore. My arm is worse—the sleeve of my henley is soaked, dripping onto the carpet in heavy splashes.
I have maybe fifteen minutes before the adrenaline quits and I pass out.
Adrian is pressed against the wall. His back is flat against the plaster. His eyes are wide—the first uncontrolled expression I’ve seen on his face. He looks at the blond on the floor, then at the big one, then at me.
His mouth opens. Closes.
"Your bag," I bark. "Pick it up. We’re leaving."
He stares at me for two more seconds. Then something clicks. The shock vanishes, replaced by that clinical wall of ice. He retrieves his bag and stands up. His hands are steady again. Whatever he saw in the last sixty seconds, he’s already packing it away.
Useful. A man who can compartmentalize under fire is a man who can cut into a body while the world burns.
"Move. Stairs."
I follow him down, keeping my body between him and the hallway. The stairwell is cold, concrete, lit by a single bulb on each landing. Our footsteps echo—his measured, mine heavy and uneven.
My left leg is starting to stiffen. The adrenaline is losing its argument with the pain.
Ground floor. Back exit. The alley smells like wet trash and old iron. My truck is half a block away. I push through the doorand scan the street. No Russians. Just the empty city and the cold rain.
"Run," I say.
He hesitates. I grab his arm—the same bicep—and pull him into a sprint. He runs like a man who has never had to hurry. Long-legged, uncoordinated, his breath hitching with every stride.
The truck is twenty yards away. I dig the keys from my pocket with my right hand, leaving red smears on the metal fob. I unlock the doors and shove Adrian into the passenger seat.
He hits the seat hard. His bag lands in the footwell. I slam the door and circle to the driver’s side. By the time my ass hits the seat, I’ve got the engine turning over.
I floor it. The tires bark against the asphalt as we jump into the street.
I drive with my right hand on the wheel. My left arm is a dead weight in my lap. I press the hem of my shirt into the slash on my forearm, but the fabric is already saturated.
Blood is everywhere. It’s on the gearshift. It’s on the console. It’s dripping onto my jeans. The pain has moved past white-hot and into a deep, grinding throb that pulses with my heartbeat.
