Page 139 of Crossover

BAM.

The sound reverberated through the train car, a thunderclap in the confined space. In that instant, the world hung in the balance, teetering between life and death, victory and defeat.

78

GRAYSON

Suddenly, an intense burning clipped my cheek.

For a second, I thought I was a goner, but I was still moving. Still thinking clearly.

Vosch’s last bodyguard slumped to the ground with a bullet wound to his eyebrow frommyshot.

And then Vosch himself rose to his feet.

Gun in hand.

“Finally,” I said. “Thought you were too big of a pussy to fight your own fights.”

Vosch’s muzzle flashed momentarily as a crack echoed off the metal walls. The projectile tore into the seat beside me, ripping through faux leather and sending stuffing flying in a cloud of pale debris.

I returned fire, the recoil jolting through my arms while my shoulder screamed in protest, a white-hot lance of pain throwing off my aim at the crucial moment.

Vosch’s hand exploded in a spray of red, bits of bone and tissue splattering the wall behind him.

The gun slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor.

He clutched his ruined hand to his chest, his face full of shock and rage.

For a moment, our gazes locked—predator and prey, though it wasn’t clear who was which. The train car fell silent, save for our ragged breathing and the distant screeching of brakes.

I steadied the aim of my gun. “You hurt the woman I love.”

I fired off a round to his shin, reveling in the way he had to drop to his knees in front of me, then another to his stomach—one of the most painful places to be shot in the human body.

As the lump of shit fell to the ground, I flipped the asshole onto his back and knelt next to his shoulders. The scumbag managed to grab the barrel of my gun, twisting it away from him.

I shoved my elbow into his throat and pinned him to the ground. A thrilling eagerness swept through me as I pressed the barrel against his forehead and pulled the trigger.

Click. The hollow sound echoed as Vosch thrashed wildly, seeing his chance.

I hurled the useless gun aside and used my full strength to restrain him. Our eyes locked as my hands trembled with barely contained wrath and found their way around his throat.

“This ends now,” I growled.

As I squeezed, I felt a twisted satisfaction, watching terror bloom in his features. He writhed beneath me, but his struggles were futile against the crushing suffocations of my anger.

It was bittersweet, ending him this way. I’d once told Ivy that if I ever got my hands on the man that kidnapped her, he’d suffer a brutal death. Strangling wasn’t brutal enough, but if I released him now, even if I could get my hands on something to cause him more pain—a knife, a nail, anything—I risked him getting away, and if there was one thing I would not do, it would be to allow this piece of shit to take one more breath in this world.

As his struggles weakened, a beautiful sight materialized before me. His fading eyes became windows to Ivy’s and my tormented pasts, his faltering movements a balm to our broken souls. Time stretched, seconds expanding into gloriouseternities as I watched, unflinching, while the embodiment of Ivy’s suffering drew his final attempt at a breath.

I waited another sixty seconds before releasing my grip and pressing my fingers to his neck, searching for the pulse of Ivy’s monster.

Finding none, my lips curled.

79

GRAYSON

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