Page 8 of Break For Me
"Then I carry you," I say. "And I don't give a damn about scuffing the luggage."
His jaw tightens. A micro-expression—there and gone, swallowed by that frigid composure. He holds my gaze for three seconds. I count the beats of my own heart against my ribs.
He turns without a word. He walks to a closet near the front door and pulls out a black leather medical bag. It’s heavy. He handles it the way a soldier handles a sidearm—automatic, practiced.
"I’ll need to know the nature of the injury," he says, his back to me.
"You’ll need to shut up and move."
I grab his arm. My hand wraps entirely around his bicep, my fingers overlapping. He’s nothing but wire and bone under that coat.
The second I touch him, he goes rigid. Every muscle in his frame locks down. It’s an involuntary, animal reaction—the response of a body that has learned to brace for damage.
I file that away. Someone has put hands on this man before. Someone has taught his body to expect the worst from a grip on his arm.
I pull him toward the door.
The hallway is a narrow throat of a space. Pre-war building, high ceilings, but the corridors are tight. I go first, my hand still clamped on his arm.
Adrian is a shadow behind me. He’s clutching his medical bag against his chest, his breathing loud and rhythmic. Four counts in, four counts out. He’s forcing his pulse to stay low.
The elevator is fifteen feet to my left. The stairwell is twenty feet to my right. I choose the stairs. Elevators are just upright coffins with buttons.
I’m three steps from the heavy metal stairwell door when the elevator chimes.
The sound is a needle in my ear. A polite, mechanicaldingthat bounces off the plaster walls.
I stop. Adrian smacks into my back. His shoulder blades hit my spine.
The elevator doors slide open.
Two men step out. The first is compact and wiry, wearing a leather jacket over a shoulder holster. The second is a wall of meat with a shaved head and the dead eyes of a man who has buried too many bodies. They aren't cops. They aren't building security.
Russians.
The wiry one sees my face and his hand goes to his hip. I’m already moving.
I shove Adrian sideways with my right hand. He hits the wall hard. His medical bag skids across the carpet. I lunge for the blond before he can clear his holster.
I grab his wrist and twist. I feel the joint grind and the small bones pop. His shot goes wide.
A deafening roar fills the narrow corridor. A round punches into the ceiling. Grey plaster rains down like ash.
The big one is on me a second later. He doesn’t have a gun. He has a fixed-blade tactical knife—six inches of black steel aimed right for my kidney.
He’s fast for his size. I pivot, dragging the blond in front of me like a human shield. The knife sinks into the blond’s shoulder. He screams—a high, thin sound that cuts through the ringing in my ears.
I use his weight as a battering ram. I drive both of them back into the elevator car.
The big Russian snarls and shoves his partner aside. He slashes out with the blade. The steel catches my left forearm—a hot, bright line that opens the skin from wrist to elbow. I feel the muscle separate.
Blood sheets down my hand, making my grip slick and unreliable. He pulls free and resets his stance.
There’s no room to move. This is my kind of fight—ugly, compressed, decided by who can take more punishment. The answer has always been me.
He thrusts. I don’t dodge. I catch the blade in my left palm.
The steel slides between the third and fourth metacarpals. The pain is a nuclear detonation. It travels up my arm and settles in my jaw, white and blinding.
