Page 42 of Savage Hero

He watches me for an impossibly long second, and then releases me, steps back, looks away. “We’re going to be late.”

As he storms down the hall, something inside me splinters a little. I saw nothing in his eyes to make me think that this is anything but some kind of lousy attempt at redemption. I don’t know what my pathetic life will do against a heap of dead bodies, but I should probably give him credit for trying.

But I can’t.

I wanted to see something in those charcoal eyes when I asked him why he’d put his life on the line for me. I wanted…hope, I guess.

I’ve done some pretty nasty things in my life. They were all to people who deserved it, lesser monsters and demons who treated human beings like cattle.

Actually, I’ve known cows who were treated better than some.

But I thought Savage wasn’t all bad. That he’d somehow retained a sliver of morality. That, maybe, there’d been an explanation behind some of the horrific stunts he’d pulled.

If that’s the case, I’m not one of them. There’s no explaining why he’s helping me, but one thing’s for sure.It has nothing to do with his heart.

Which, I’m starting to suspect, turned black and rotten a long, long time ago.

Chapter Twenty-One

Nyx

I’m sweating fucking bullets, and it’s only partly because I’m standing on the sidewalk in the middle of the day wearing a beanie, a jacket, and several layers of clothes.

Savage told me to smoke a cigarette because I looked too nervous. I could barely hold back those first few coughs as my body rejected the noxious smoke, but then the parts of me that remembered what a buzz it used to give me kicked in.

Now I’m standing out here puffing like a fucking choo-choo train…and despite loathing myself for this act of weakness, I give silent thanks to Savage.

The nicotine calms me down. I’m hot and sweaty and nervous, but at least no one’s giving me a second look as they walk past me.

There’s a food truck nearby. I ordered something a minute ago, and since then I’ve been standing here smoking.

Waiting.

There are a handful of people around. It should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. All I keep thinking about are the people who were gunned down in the restaurant—innocents caught in the crossfire. They probably never hurt anyone. Wrong place, wrong time.

I need to pee, but I can’t. Savage was very clear about how this would go.

I’ve been in this area for over an hour. First, I climbed off the bus and went to go buy some random shit at the small hardware store a few blocks down. Then I went into the dry cleaners and came out with a freshly laundered bag ofsomething. That’s as much as I know. Savage said not to open the bag.

Is it wool or polyester? The suspense is fucking killing me.

Now I’m hanging around the food truck. I guess it’s supposed to look like I’m out to run some errands.

Where I’m assuming the Bogota cartel’s men are bound to spot me. And then try to take me out.

The guy from the food truck calls out my ticket number, and I almost drop the soda I’m holding. I hurry over to grab my order, my mouth watering at the smell of fries even though my stomach twists at the thought of eating anything right now.

I have to try.

Savage made a point of that too.

Two hours, he said. That’s all it would take for the cartel to scramble a sicario or three to come and gun me down in broad daylight.

If that’s all it takes, I need to drill a whole new routine into Athena’s head when I get back home.

IfI get back home.

My chest starts closing up, and I plonk down on the bench furthest from the food truck as I shove a fry in my mouth.

---