Page 65 of Hidden But Not Safe

Meg was crying.

He found her under the table, huddled beneath her raised arms, curling as tight into herself as she could. Bags and bottles had spilled on the concrete from the skewed tables, and he batted them aside to crawl underneath with her, wrapping her up in his arms.

If she was crying, she was alive. He hadn’t gotten her killed.

She stiffened against him.

Naz deserved that. His episode must have scared her. He rocked her until his mind focused enough to speak.

“Meg.”

Her head jerked up, clipping his jaw, and he smacked his head into the underside of the table. It barely hurt compared to other places on his body.

Meg searched his eyes from so close, hers drenched, tears still flowing. Her pupils were blown wide, trying to swallow her eyes. Some of the fear in her face eased, and her body grew less stiff. “It’s you.”

She buried her head in his neck, her arms wrapping around him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She’d had bruises on her face.

Naz hoped he’d find one of the men still alive so he could kill them.

He rubbed her back until her apologies wound down and her breathing stopped shuddering.

They needed to get out of there.

Naz eased her away from him, checking her over. She had bruises, a fat lip, scratches on her neck, and her knees were scraped up and bleeding. All of it made him furious, but none of it would kill her.

When he reached out and brushed a finger over the darkened skin of her cheek, he left a smear and realized he’d probably been getting his blood all over her. Or someone else’s.

He hit his head again crawling out from beneath the table.

Rocks was dead. He already knew that.

Julio was closest to the table. His mincemeat face and missing eyes made it hard to tell at first, but he wasn’t breathing.

Where the fuck were his eyes?

Naz was pretty sure he almost stepped on one of them when he crossed to Carlos. His dead eyes were still attached, though his head was at an odd angle.

Miguel was on his side with his eyes squeezed shut. His right arm and leg were hanging limply, obviously broken. Tremors ran through his torso.

“Please,” Miguel begged, his voice more liquid than air. “Please, please, please.”

Naz still had his gun at the small of his back. The gunshot echoed in the warehouse.

Meg made a choked sound but didn’t scream. She stood near the table, cradling her left wrist.

Naz’s torso hurt the worst. He lifted his shirts. Blood seeped from a gunshot wound near his waistband. His fingers probed his back, finding the exit wound. That was good. It looked like a through-and-through, tearing mostly muscle, he hoped. If it’d hit anything major, there’d be a smell, and more blood. Time would tell.

Only one bullet wound from four opponents wasn’t bad. He must have surprised the shit out of them.

The rest of his pain came from the jabs Rocks must have given him. He was pretty sure one of his ribs was broken, but otherwise, he just had overly tenderized flesh from fists living up to the man’s name. It’d keep for now.

He tied his undershirt around his lower side, hoping some pressure would help stop the bleeding from the bullet wound, and pulled his other shirt back on.

Meg crossed to him, but she was limping, and she’d lost one of her shoes.

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