Page 82 of Callum

Nodding as if I caught it all, I brace myself for whatever we’re about to walk into.

I don’t brace well enough.

The door explodes with a sharp bang, and Callum’s body crashes into mine, knocking me halfway down the stairs. He catches himself on the railing, using the spindle to launch into the hallway beyond. Scrambling after him, I step into an active warzone.

Visibility is shit in the hall, the air still heavy with smoke from whatever blew open the basement door. I can hear rapid gunfire and angry shouts from my left, but there isn’t much noise to the right. Callum’s deep curse has me turning toward his voice, but a set of arms snaps around my torso before I can take a step.

We slam into the wall, my shoulder cracking against a picture frame that goes crashing to the ground. The man grunts when I lift my legs, throwing him off balance. We tip forward, and I extend my foot into the inside of his knee when he tries to correct our balance. I feel the crunch of his kneecap popping out of place, the sound lost in the cacophony of bullets. He screams, loosening his hold enough for me to slip through his arms.

I’m two steps toward the living room when someone grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking me into the hall again. A second man drags me across the floor and directly into the path of the man now cradling one knee to his chest.

“You little bitch,” he seethes, snapping a fist out to punch me in the jaw. My head cracks to the side, several hairs ripping from my skull, where Goon Number Two still has his meaty fingers pressed against my scalp.

The hairpuller yanks me closer to him, wrapping one arm around my waist as the other man turns me into a human punching bag. Neither of them seems to realize they’ve pinned me between them in a hallway the size of a postage stamp. Bringing my feet up knocks the man holding me off balance, forcing him to lean directly into a haymaker from the other.

Both men are still shouting when I kick Goon Number One’s stomach hard enough that he doubles over. Straightening my legs with my feet still pressed into his torso slams the man holding me into the opposite wall. It has the added advantage of breaking his hold on my waist long enough for me to slip a knife from my belt.

Timing is everything, and I wait for the forward push of the first man against my feet before I unlock my knees. He overcorrects, and I’m able to spin him away with a well-placed kick to his busted knee.

He drops to the ground at my feet, his head at the perfect level for a Doctor Special: DIY Spinal Trauma. Hot red blood flows over my hand and wrist, but I shove the knife in until the hilt sits against the base of his skull. The life drains from his body at once, and he slumps forward, taking my knife with him.

Fuck.

Hairpuller doesn’t take too kindly to me killing his friend. Grabbing me around the waist, he suplexes us backward. My head bounces off the floor before he rolls us, trying to get on top of me. That absolutely cannot happen.

My hands scrabble for another knife in my belt, but they’re ripped away by the man forcing me beneath him. I scream in frustration, nails digging into the soft flesh of his neck and face. He lets out a pained roar when my thumb stabs into his eye. “You’re going to regret that, Red.”

I recognize his voice but can’t place it in my panic. He’s winning. My entire right side is pinned under his body, and he’s dragging the rest of me into place. I try to twist away, but he sits on my hips, effectively trapping me. Hands grab for my arms, and I feel my knuckles crack across his face. “Stop fighting, you little cunt.”

“Never,” I spit, satisfaction welling in my chest when I see blood spray across his jaw. My lip must be bleeding.

“You little slu—”

CRACK.

Blood and brains explode above me, and I try to close my eyes and mouth in time. I’m not as successful as one might hope. “Dude! Come on.”

“What?” Callum’s calm tone filters through the sudden quiet of the house. “Was I supposed to let him rape you?”

“I had it handled,” I defend, except I definitely didn’t.

“Sure looked like it,” he scoffs from somewhere close to my head. A cloth drops across my eyes, a gentle hand wiping the fabric through the blood and miscellaneous other bits. “You’re bleeding, kitten.”

“How can you tell?” I huff, shoving at the massive body pinning me to the ground. I recognize him now, my lip curling in disgust. Mario Rockwell, what a piece of shit.

Callum moves toward my leg, lifting the blood-soaked fabric with a severe look. “You decimated your stitches,” he strips the ruined bandage from my shin, revealing a massacre beneath. “This isn’t good, kitten.”

“Sorry, I was a touch occupied,” I gesture to the men lying on either side of us. That’s when I see it. A dark stain spreads across Callum’s bicep, a fresh wound peeking through the torn fabric. “Fuck, Callum. You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.” He sounds distracted as he works, pulling more medical supplies from various places on his body. He moves quickly, covering the mangled wound with practiced efficiency. “We need to get you back home before too long so I can fix this properly.”

Knowing better than to try and argue with him when he’s like this, I nod in agreement. “Did you kill them all?”

“No.”

“No?” My eyes snap to his, a question forming on my tongue when something catches my eye. I turn my gaze to the man who has clearly been a victim of the Doctor Special but without the mercy of death. He has lost all function below the point where I see a long metal bar sticking out of his spine, and he’s dragging himself across the living room floor.

“Come on, kitten,” Callum reaches down to help pull me to my feet. “We have a job to finish.”

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