Page 6 of Golden Burn

Bolt shoots. The sound of the bullet flying from the canister is silent. But it hits Gregory’s chest with a loudwhack.

He falls to his knees.

Bolt closes the distance and presses his shoe into the seeping wound he made in Gregory’s sternum, forcing him to the floor. He collapses backward like a sack of grain.

I’m frozen.

I watch as Bolt applies enough pressure to Gregory’s chest that he can’t quite take a full breath. More blood bubbles onto his clothes, staining his skin. He jerks beneath him like a fish caught on a line and yanked from the water.

“It gives me peace knowing I’m the last thing you get to look at,” Bolt murmurs.

He inhales and pulls the trigger one more time.

Gregory Lombardo flinches from the impact of the bullet, then ceases to exist.

It’s then that my shock starts to waver. My hands begin to shake. I think I’m on the verge of vomiting. And my skin is so blanched of color it must resemble that of a bone picked clean.

But some twisted part of me can’t help acknowledging that Bolt’s confidence and sheer domination are transfixing in a way villains are always more interesting than the heroes.

He just killed a man.

And I’m pretty much stuck between swooning and screaming in terror.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Out of nowhere, two men enter the space, stepping through the door like they were waiting on cue. The first is burly and White, the second slim and Black. Any other defining features become a blur behind the water leaking from my eyes.

I’ve seen a lot of death.A lot.

But this is something entirely unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. And I don’t know what to do with myself.

Luckily, the choice is made for me.

While the two men busy themselves putting a plastic sheet over Gregory and tying up his body, Odin stalks over to me, his single eye crisp with resolve.

I try to step away from him. But it’s no use.

He grabs my upper arm and pulls me toward the door.

“I’m not going with you,” I say as I try to slip out of his hold like a child throwing a tantrum.

He just grips tighter, pulls a little harder. “Yes, you are,” he grunts.

“Wait! Wait! You can’t—You can’t just—Let go of me right now!”

I’m brought to a halt as he spins and gets up in my face. “You have two options right now, Ms Lewis. Comply or fight.” My first thought is to fight. My muscles even twitch with the first motions of kick. But Bolt continues before I can answer. “If you comply, you can board my plane without injury. Fight, and I’ll haul you over my shoulder and tie your hands behind your back.”

Well… shit.

My answer remains trapped behind my lips.

“Comply it is,” he says and takes my arm again. This time, I notice that his fingers are calloused, his palm round and large, and still a little bloody.

It smears across my skin.

I stumble after him, my feet dragging, staring at the redness he leaves on me like a brand.

He shoves me into a fancy dark Mercedes and slams the door, leaving me alone.

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