Page 39 of Wraith

They’re almost to the door when Hawk stops.

“You know what? Hold on a sec. I gotta piss,” he says.

My entire body goes rigid. “There’s a gas station two blocks down.”

“I’m not going two blocks. There’s a bathroom right there.” He’s already turning toward it, already moving.

“Hawk,” I say.

He doesn’t stop.

“Hawk, wait.”

His hand is on the bathroom door handle.

“Hawk, don’t.”

But it’s too late.

Chapter Sixteen

June

The air freshener can drops from my hand and hits the tub with a hollow thunk that sounds like the closing of a coffin. Hawk’s eyes lock onto mine and his hand moves to his gun and there’s a split second where the entire universe contracts down to this single moment — me, nearly naked, trapped in a bathtub, with a man who’s been sent here to kill me. This is how I die. In my underwear. Hungover. After hearing Wraith go on and on about how he loves to shove wine bottles up his ass.

Then Wraith moves.

He’s across the room in two strides, grabs Hawk by the hair and throat before Hawk can get his gun fully drawn. Wraith yanks him backward with the force that makes Hawk’s neck do things necks aren’t supposed to do, and he hurls him to the ground.

Hawk hits the linoleum hard. His gun skitters across the floor.

Wraith kicks him in the head.

The kick that connects with Hawk’s temple with a sound like a watermelon hitting pavement, and Hawk’s eyes roll back and his body goes slack. Wraith punches him once more for good measure.

I’m still standing in the bathtub, frozen, watching this happen.

Wraith spins around, already moving toward Bruiser, and that’s when I see his face. It’s not the cold, controlled Wraith I remember. It’s something else. Something feral and focused and absolutely fucking terrifying. His eyes are sharp, and his jaw is set, and there’s blood on his knuckles from where they connected with something — Hawk’s teeth, maybe. I don’t know; I can’t process this fast enough.

Bruiser’s gun is halfway out of its holster when Wraith reaches him.

“You fucking creep, Wraith,” Bruiser says, and his voice has this disgusted edge to it. “Put your cock away.”

“I’ll take any advantage I can get,” Wraith says, and then he’s on him. “So if you get distracted staring at my cock, that’s your fucking problem.”

“Fucking weirdo.”

They collide with brutal force.

Bruiser’s bigger. He’s got at least fifty pounds on Wraith and arms like tree trunks and the reach that should give him an overwhelming advantage. But Wraith’s faster. He slips inside Bruiser’s guard and drives an elbow into his ribs with enough force that I hear something crack. Bruiser grunts and swings wildly, a haymaker that would take Wraith’s head off if it connected, but Wraith ducks under it and comes up with a knee to Bruiser’s gut.

The air goes out of Bruiser in a whoosh.

Wraith follows it with a punch to the throat.

Bruiser staggers back, gagging, and Hawk is already getting up from the floor, blood running from his temple, his eyes unfocused but his body moving on instinct and training.

This is bad.