Page 135 of Dash

“You got it, darling.” I squeezed her hand and lifted the gun in the air. “I’m gonna give you some cover. When I’m done, you’ll have two rounds left. Understand?”

“And you?” she asked, her forehead furrowed.

“I’m gonna go retrieve my Glock in a second here.” I flashed her a fierce smile.

Fear gleamed in her eyes, but she nodded. “I trust you.”

These were the exact words I’d needed to hear from her.

I peeked out and spotted Shaw sitting up as he fought to disentangle from the cart, half covered in cake. First things first. I took aim at the red remote laying on the ground a few feet from him and shot.

Plink.

The round hit true, destroying the red remote and Shaw’s capacity to blow us all to hell. Pieces of plastic and components jumping everywhere. Immediately, I shifted my aim to Shaw.

Crack, crack.

One round groused his arm, the other one hit his knee, buying me some precious time. It sucked that I was gonna try to get the man alive, if only because we needed to know more about the New World Order.

I handed the Colt to Thena. “Go.”

Scooting on her hands and knees, she reached the door, gave me a last look, and crawled out of the danger zone into a night still illuminated by dying flames.

My leg felt like putty and blood drenched my pants, but Thena had survived this day and I needed to finish this. Ignoring the pain, I scooted to the end of the overturned table and stuck out my head.

A trail of rounds punched big holes through the wood less than an inch over my head. I flattened on the floor, crossed my hands over the back of my head, and pressed my face to the ground. The rounds mostly passed over me. A couple of them stung as they left a rut on my back, but so far, so good.

I grabbed Thena’s discarded heels, tied the straps together, then pushed them hard across the parquet floor. Rustling and clattering all the way, the shoes slid along the long edge of the table and tumbled over one of the table’s legs. With a solid din, they bounced into the dining room’s far corner.

My ruse worked. Shaw redirected his fire away from my position, aiming for the sound. Peeking through a bullet hole on the table surface, I spotted him and his reflection on the cracked mirrors. Despite his wounds, he was on his feet, the hardy son of a bitch. Pressing his cheek to the butt of his carbine, he advanced on the far position, shooting rounds as if there was no tomorrow.

Moving quietly, I dragged myself parallel to him. When I got to the middle of the table, I pushed up into a crouch.Shit, that hurt, but I had to be on my feet for this. I clutched my hand around my dagger, inhaled, and bracing my other hand at the edge of the table, jumped over it.

I caught Shaw off balance, trying to turn around even as he kept shooting. Grabbing his weapon with my left hand, I used all my heft to slam him against the wall. His back collided against the mirrors.

He kept his finger on the trigger, sending spurts of rounds all over. Dry wall, venetian plaster, and crystal exploded all around us as I pinned his rifle between our bodies. A big chandelier crashed down a few feet from us, making a hellish racket. His tactical vest protected him from my blade. The carbine had to go.

I delivered a vicious strike just above his elbow. My blade sliced across his Brachialis, disconnecting his capability to flexhis arm and unleashing a gush of blood. His forearm dropped like a dead thing. Punching down with my elbow, I hit his weapon. The carbine fell to the ground.

“Are you ready to die, Dagger?” He swung his left hand and reached for his Beretta.

“The question is, are you?”

I brought up my knee and slammed it against his hand. The Beretta leaped out of his fingers. It flew over the table and clattered toward the French doors. I slammed him against the mirrored wall and came in low beneath his vest. Using all my strength, I angled my dagger up and stabbed him, plunging deep, pushing behind his sternum, taking a slight left. In a movement I’d practiced a million times, I jammed the dagger toward his heart.

Shaw made a weird noise, a snort that was also a groan.

“I told you I was gonna kill you for this,” I muttered. “You chose your death.”

His mouth opened and his eyes glinted with knowledge. “Nix… Nix…” he gargled.

“Nix was a good man,” I ground out. “You won’t be seeing him in hell where you’re going.”

Killing a man with a dagger was the most intimate kind of death. Misery flared in his eyes, the realization of all of his mistakes. I witnessed the moment he farewelled his existence and his life force began to ebb from his eyes. For a few more seconds, I could feel the beat of his heart traveling through the blade. Then it stopped. The air rushed out of his lungs and a spurt of blood dripped out of his open mouth. The stench of shit stunk up the room, the smell of death.

I took a rattling breath and with a yank, withdrew the dagger. A crimson flow followed in its wake. From fingertips to elbow, my arm was soaked. Shaw slumped down the wall and collapsed on the floor. He was done and over.

Sucking in air, I murmured, “May the gods have mercy on your soul, ’cause I got none for fucking traitors.” After securing my dagger to my belt, I bent over, slid my Glock out of Shaw’s holster, and checked the mag. “Welcome back, my friend.”

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