Page 42 of How to Kill Your Rival

‘It’s a fucking bomb,’ Eliza says.

Blinking red light.

‘Out!’ I yell.

‘James—’

‘OUT.’

I pull her out of the room, sending us stumbling backwards. Reaching for her, I only just grab her before we fall.

A deafening roar rips past us. Heat and noise and chaos. I try to roll us over to cover Eliza with my body, but it’s too late. Wet heat coats us both, and it feels like I’ve been slapped with a hundred little hands.

I hold us down until the blast is over, sitting up and noting the carnage.

Eliza has something on her face that doesn’t belong to her. I reach out and grasp it, discovering that it’s a fucking ear.

‘Oh shit, no,’ I say, tossing it away. The bloody ear hits the wall and slowly slides down.

The mark is gone. Well, most of him. His lower half remains in the chair, legs crossed at the ankles like he’s relaxing and not missing his fucking torso.

My ears are ringing, but at least they are still attached to my head. I reach up and check. Just in case.

‘Someone rigged him,’ I say.

‘Obviously,’ she says.

‘To a bomb.’

Eliza looks at me, her scarlet-coated face unimpressed. ‘Do you think the blast rendered me stupid? I know it’s a bomb.’

Eliza seems far cooler with this situation than I am. Like it’s an everyday affair to get brains in your hair.

‘How did they know when to set the bomb off?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know, but we need to get out of here. Now. We don’t want to be here when the police arrive. Pick up your knife and let’s go.’

A distant siren wails.

‘Go,’ she orders.

My legs feel like jelly when I stand, but I obey.

* * *

My car is parked a few blocks away, so we jump in hers and hotfoot it back to her flat, hoping we don’t bump into anyone on the way. The last thing we need is to explain the bloodbath that coats our skin and clothes.

We have to wait in her car for twenty minutes until the coast is clear enough for us to reach her stairwell unseen.

We are halfway up to her flat when a door opens, and an old woman pops out of it. I freeze. The two of us look like we’ve been playing in an abattoir.

Shit.

She turns towards us, and I slip my hand into Eliza’s, trying to get her attention.

‘Mrs Grey,’ Eliza says warmly, like she’s not standing head to toe in fucking innards.

‘Is that you, Eliza, love?’