Page 92 of Extracted

Crack, crack, crack!

A shower of bullets burst through the window behind him. Dallas dove onto the sofa. The women screamed, and the clomping of high heels followed. He covered his head, but no more shots came through the window.

There were shouts in the hallway, and the door jumped on its hinges.

His mind reeled as he lifted his head from beneath his arm. Shattered glass littered the leather that he lay on. He turned his gaze to the armchair where Silas had been moments before. He was gone.

Dallas rolled off the couch. Glass landed on the floor with a tinkling sound. He scanned the room. Silas sat on the ground, leaning against the side of the chair—feet away from the door. Only half the man’s body was visible, but blood trickling through Silas’s fingers, extended from his side. They’d got him.

“I know you’re alive!” Silas croaked, kicking the chair away from the door, likely too injured to stand. “You won’t be for long.”

Dallas fought the urge to crawl across the carpet and finish him off. Whoever had shot through the window could still be out there.

“Hurry up!” Silas screamed to his men on the other side.

“Stand back! I’m going to fire through the lock,” one of the guards said.

He had to escape. He glanced behind him at the open window, free of glass. If he moved too slowly, he’d get shot by whoever had targeted Silas.

If he didn’t move, he’d be caught and tortured by Silas’s men.

He pushed himself from the floor and ran toward the window. Glass crunched beneath his feet.

Pop, pop

The metal lock blew away from the door.

“Hurry!” Silas yelled. “He’s getting away!”

The door burst open as Dallas leaped through the window. He landed on the concrete with a thud and rolled. More shots were fired—this time from the sniper or whoever was outside.

Silas’s men cursed and returned fire.

Dallas shielded his head with his hands and scurried on his knees along the wall of the building. A dumpster came into view. He had to make it. Bracing himself on his toes, he dove for cover.

Crack, crack!

The searing-hot pain of a bullet kissing his flesh scalded his skin. “Fuck,” he hissed. Turning his bicep to inspect the wound, he rested his back against the metal. Blood trickled from his arm, just beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt, but the wound wasn’t too deep. Just a graze that happened to be right above the injury he’d acquired from the tree branch when he bailed out of the plane.

Hopefully Silas had made out a hell of a lot worse.

Hurried footsteps on pavement met his ears. Someone was coming from the side of the building.

Shit.

He held his gun steady, ready to kill whoever ran around the corner. A man burst from behind the building.

“Stop!” Dallas commanded. His finger moved to the trigger, but something made him hesitate.

A sense of familiarity struck him before he even took in the gunman’s appearance. He lowered his weapon. Cole’s dark hair had strayed from its usual neat, combed-back style.

Blood stained the front of his light-gray T-shirt, and he panted as if he’d run a marathon. Which seemed damn-near impossible because Cole never got winded—either because he was in excellent shape or because he simply refused to show weakness of any kind.

“Cole?” Dallas wheezed.

Cole’s body loosened, his gun dropped to his side, and he stomped toward him. “Holy shit,” he growled. “I thought you were dead. How the fuck’d you get out of there?”

Dallas glanced over his shoulder. “Get down. There’s shooters.”

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