Page 544 of Rage

This whole thing is fucked up. So, I hold on to his wrist long enough for the kid to know that I’mlettinghim free.

I might be a bit battle-worn, but I’ve got two decades and two feet on the pipsqueak. Even if the Sig evens things out considerably.

“If you can find a way for me to walk successfully, I’d be all ears,” I reply, motioning at my blood-dark, tulle covered leg.

The kid wipes his mouth with his shirt sleeve, smearing more dirt than he’s clearing. “They left you to die. Some friends you’ve got, old man.”

I can’t say I’ve ever been called old before. First time for everything. But at least I know that the last time this kid saw Cece and Xander, they were both still alive. Good news, based on all the shooting that’s been going on. “I sure can pick them,” I say, wondering if I can win over this gun wielding preschooler. “Where were you hoping to bring me?”

“To your grave,” he answers, dropping his tone like he isn’t a soprano, like my destination is a surprise. I can see the backhoe if I peer around the tombstone I’m leaning against.

“Alright kid. Let’s get this over with,” I say, hoisting myself upright on one foot, the chunk of stone beside me the only thing keeping me vertical.

Then, because I’m an asshole at heart, I take my chance and dive at the kid, twisting the gun from his spindly fingers and pointing the damn thing right back at him.

Before I can figure out how to get the kid to lay off, though, a voice cuts from behind me. “Think about your next step, O’Connell. That’s my son you have there.”

I turn in place, pretending like I’m not using a gravestone to keep myself upright, and meet Mikhail Morozov’s pale gaze. “Starting him a little young, aren’t you?”

“Worked alright for your father,” he replies, motioning with his gun for me to toss him the Sig.

“Or maybe not, because here I am, not even thirty, and looking forward to a shallow grave.” I take apart the weapon and toss each piece into the darkness behind me.

“But you did plenty before now. Enough for your grandfather to name you heir apparent.”

“True. Ahead of even my father.”

His lips twist at that, before he motions for his kid to come to him, and the little guy does, trotting over like the well-trained mini mobster he must be. “Enough talk. Let’s get you lined up for a clean shot.”

“That’s going to be a problem.”

“How so? You walk, or I shoot.”

“When was the last time you hauled two hundred and sixty-five pounds of dead weight a quarter mile, Morozov? Because if the rumor mill is right, I’m not sure you’ve ever stooped to that level of grunt work.”

“I’ll wing you. You’ll be fine.”

“Your man already did one better. My leg’s been leaking for probably an hour. I’m not sure I can handle too much more blood loss. Where is ol’ Pinky anyways?”

Morozov huffs and whistles. A moment later, a different grunt jogs up beside him. “Go nowhere without help. You could learn from my example, O’Connell. If you were going to live past tonight, that is.”

With that, I’m ‘helped’ to my grave by this new minion, my leg numb and my head spinning.

I thought I was ready to die. Figured I have been since I first killed a man at twelve. Take a life, give a life, some sort of cosmic balance shit that’s been aching under my skin for years, only soothed at the bottom of a bottle.

I’ve spent most of my life surviving, not really living. I’ve got Xander and Eddie, that’s it. Not even a houseplant to worryabout if I don’t make it home. As soon as I took that shot, I figured I’d sacrifice myself to get Xander out of here. Cece, too.

But there was something about that kiss.

An instant connection that screams I have something to live for. Something that sings, lights up, makes little hearts bobble around in my eyes, all that stupid poetic shit that I figured the lousy saps of the world made up. But maybe it’s not all idiot poets with nothing better to do. Maybe people really do change when they meet the right person.

The dream shatters as I approach my grave, even knowing that Cece could be that person for me.

At least she’ll have Xander. I hope they bond over my death, become some unstoppable duo, Eddie and Nat by their sides.

That thought has a few more falling into place. If Morozov is out here killing us, Nat must be in on it—and poor loyal-to-the-core Eddie is in for one shit awakening.

Why Cece’s caught up in this still makes no sense, though. Could it be jealousy? Cece’s gorgeous and powerful, but so is Nat. Nat’s old-fashioned, but that’s a virtue in our world. Tradition matters when you’re ruling an empire like a king over his country.

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