Page 10 of Knights Game

Eyes search mine.

I bat her hand away and she pulls back. “Can you move?” she asks as I start to wrestle with the seatbelt. “The car’s leaking petrol. We need to get you out and I mean now.” She disappears again, shouting something to people outside.

“I’m going to kill them,” I mutter, rage seeping into every part of me. “Roman.” Roman collapses back down next to me. “This was a hit!”

His eyes meet mine, his expression grim. He’s already come to the same conclusion.

He digs his hand into his pocket and pulls out a switchblade, making quick work of his seatbelt, then mine. Which brings my chest instant relief. “They failed, so I would say the car about to blow is the more pressing issue.” He rams the car door with his shoulder; it remains closed. “Door's fucked.” He starts to climb towards me, forcing his long legs over the centre console. “Knight, come on, brother, you have to move.”

I’m sluggish, there’s no denying it. My head spins every time I shift position and my chest ripples with pain. Not to mention a blinding heat in my stomach.

“We have to go now.” The woman appears on my right again, her soft voice replaced with urgency. She looks over her shoulder and quickly backs away, her petite hand wrapped around my wrist as Roman pushes me from the left.

I stagger out of the car then pause, squinting against the lights of Kensington High Street, sirens wailing in the background. People are shouting and waving us towards them.

“Knight, fucking move.” Roman pushes me forward, and I stumble into the lithe woman whose grip is still firm on my arm, warmth radiating from her skin to mine. She tucks herself under my arm and I’m grateful for the additional support, Roman quickly joins her on the other side.

We’ve barely taken a step, when the car explodes, propelling us forward—heat tracking up my back—and throwing the three of us into the air. Her small yelp is the only thing I can focus on before we come back down to the pavement hard, the breath knocked out of me.

My head bounces off the road, and Christ if stars don’t dance in front of my eyes all over again.

“Luca!” Roman shouts. My ears are ringing, and I can barely see past the encroaching darkness. “Luca.” His voice sounds sofar away. So, fucking far, yet he’s right here, and he roughly turns me over, his ugly mug shouting at me to get up.

My legs aren’t working.

Nothing’s working.

I can see panic in my friend’s face. Which is such a strange thing to see. Roman is always calm, always collected, it looks so foreign on him, and I frown.

I try to speak but my tongue feels heavy, my mouth thick like someone has put cotton wool in it.

“Luca.”

It’s her voice, and I feel her warm hands on my face. I want to lean into them, so soft and comforting. I can’t tell what she’s saying, but it’s soothing, and I hold onto it as the familiar darkness takes over and I fall into nothingness.

I wake to the smell of disinfectant and bright lights, grimace and clench my eyes shut again.

“I swear to God, if I’m in a hospital I’m going to lose my shit.”

“You’re such a pussy.” Roman’s voice is overwhelmingly loud.

“Whisper please, my head hurts like a motherfucker.”

“I know, you passed out like a little girl after the car exploded.”

Trust Rome to show not an iota of sympathy.

“Where are we?” I ask, peeling an eye open. I’m lying on an examination bed, the blue plastic top covered by a roll of paper, a pillow tucked behind my head. It’s clinical, but it’s too quiet to be a hospital.

“Doctor’s surgery off Kensington High Street. She suggested it when I started dragging your unconscious arse before the blue lights arrived.”

“How’d we get here?”

“I carried you, did anyone ever tell you, that you’re a heavy cunt. I’ve called Henry. He’s taking care of any cameras in the area, but a crash like that is going to draw attention.”

I glance at him and sit up, a wave of pain rippling through my stomach causing me to look down. My blood-saturated shirt has been cut open, and my stomach has a fresh dressing over it. Angry purple bruising runs across my chest from the seatbelt, breaking ribs in the process of saving me, guessing by the level of pain. But the alternative would be worse.

I touch the dressing, and tug at the corners until I get a good grip and rip it off, enjoying the sharp sting. Anything is better than the constant ache running through my body. My stomach has a three-inch gash, which has been neatly stapled together.

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