Page 117 of Pack Fever

“Release him now!” I yell, my voice breaking with the intensity of my emotions.

The men all stop to turn and stare at me.

I’ve seen enough movies to know I need to take the safety off. With a trembling finger, I manage to flick the switch, and the change in the guards’ expressions is immediate—they stiffen, their eyes widening with the realization that I’m serious.

“What the fuck? She got your gun, you asshole,” the blond guard barks at his friend.

“Now!” I demand again, despite the tremors that rack my body.

The blond guard, who seems to be in charge, says, “You’re making a mistake. Give me back the gun, and we’ll let him go.”

“Stop patronizing me. I’m not an idiot,” I shout back, my heart pounding in my chest. “Release him now, or I start with your legs, then theirs.” I swing the gun to his companions, who watch me with a predatory stillness, their intentions unreadable. “And if you so much as go for your guns, I’ll shoot you.”

Sweat beads on my forehead, my grip on the gun slippery as I struggle to maintain control. I’m out of my depth, far from the comfort and safety I once knew, but the stakes are too high to back down.

I meet Reed’s gaze momentarily, and he’s giving me a grin, an expression that says he’s proud of me and supports my decision. His response fuels my strength not to give in to the fear swallowing me.

In that heart-stopping moment of silence, with nobody making a move and Reed still not released, an explosive boom from outside shatters the tense standoff.

Boom!

I flinch, a jolt of terror through me. My finger, already tensed on the trigger, flinches involuntarily, and the gun discharges with a deafening crack.

The bullet finds its mark in the blond guard’s arm. He’s thrown against the wall, howling in pain as he clutches his arm.

“You bitch,” the one in charge barks, and I swing my gun to him.

“Let Reed fucking go, or you’re next!”

Boom. Boom.

“What the hell was that sound?” the third man says, already out of the room, staring down the hallway.

The wounded guard, cursing through gritted teeth, snarls at his companion, “Release him. Fuck! Get me a medic.”

Reed wrenches free, but before I can process our fleeting chance at escape, the guard in the room backhands me with a force that sends me reeling. My grip on the gun loosens, and it’s swiftly torn from my hands. It all happens too fast.

As I tumble backward, the room spinning, pain exploding across my face, I catch a glimpse of Reed’s silhouette against the doorway where the wounded man is hauled out of the room, the door shutting urgently behind him. Reed thrusts his foot out and wedges it into the gap, preventing the door from slamming shut as the guards leave in a hurry.

He hisses under his breath from the ache, but the guards aren’t returning to shut the door. Their rushed footsteps are fading down the hallway.

From my position on the floor, the pain throbbing in my cheek, I strain to make sense of the tumultuous sounds filtering in from outside. It’s a cacophony of shouts, yells, and indistinct voices, something booming, reminiscent of the frenzied energy of one of our concerts.

The next thing I know, Reed’s got me by the hand, pulling me to my feet with an urgency that sends my heart racing.

“You did amazing, my gun-slinging beauty. Now, we need to run,” he says with something like admiration in his gaze on me. We’re on the move, me running alongside him out of the room and into the hallway. His grip is firm and reassuring in my hand.

My heart pounds in my chest as we dash through the hallway in the opposite direction from where the guards vanished.

I’m on high alert, scanning our surroundings. Farther behind us in the long corridor, I spot guards, their attention momentarily diverted as they fling the front door open, letting in a wave of sounds that are startling in their intensity. It’s a bizarre mix of shouts, laughter, and the unmistakable thump of Fever’s music blaring from outdoor speakers. The sight of cars and people scattered outside, caught up in some impromptu party, only adds to my confusion.

What’s going on?

Reed’s not paying attention and dragging me fast toward a rear exit in the house.

“Casey,” I whisper, my friend’s name slipping out almost involuntarily.

Reed doesn’t miss a beat; true to his word, he steers us toward the nearest rooms. We check three closed doors in quick succession, but the rooms are all empty.

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