Page 92 of Embrace Me Forever

What the hell was I hearing?

I navigate the area cautiously, keeping close to a wall, aware that the unstable ground beneath me could give way and send me tumbling into another sinkhole.

Amid the drafts flowing through the gaps and hollow windows alongside me, a faint moan brushes past my ears. Before I can pinpoint its origin, pain erupts in my left shoulder—two silent, swift hits that force my gun to slip from my grasp. The bullets, likely dispatched from a superior-grade silencer, scorch through my flesh like hot metal. I’m thankful none struck my heart, likely his intended target.

However, the impact is from behind me. That means…

Fuck!Someone must’ve hidden her somewhere along those dark stairs, and I marched right past them!

I flatten myself behind a pile of bricks. The gunman had shot me through the trapdoor; he won’t hit me here, not for now. I peek sideways. All remains silent. Could there be another passage? A concealed void?

My left shoulder is mangled, but I refuse to let injury slow me down. I crawl forward, approaching the trapdoor. Even though I’m on higher ground, my enemy has the advantage of darkness and a space riddled with hidden recesses. It’s a massive risk, but I must save Georgia-May, whatever it takes.

Hugging the ground, I press my ear to the concrete. The hollowness beneath reveals the sound of footsteps as more than one person moves away from the entryway.

The noises grow clearer as I descend back into the chamber. I spot movements at the far end, heading toward the sinkhole where I first entered. Behind a wall, a scuffle breaks out, the light flickering erratically.

I prepare to engage. My Glock feels alien in my right hand, as awkward as writing with the wrong hand, but a minor shift in dexterity won’t stop me from taking down that bastard. If necessary, I’d tear him away with my teeth!

As I turn to the other side of the wall, I am met with my adversary, fully prepared for our confrontation. He holds Georgia-May hostage, using her as a shield. The flashlight knocked from his hand during Georgia-May’s struggle casts an uneven light across the dim space.

“Let her go!” I bellow.

“Mr. Blake,” the captor sneers condescendingly. He seems oddly familiar with me, perhaps the elusive hooded man, Bertram’s chief operative. His appearance is deceptively ordinary, so much so that he’d blend into any crowd, entirely unremarkable and easily overlooked.

“Blake, just go!” Georgia-May pleads.

“She’s tough, this one,” the man remarks. “Unlike her dead boyfriend, she’s not a screamer. I was hoping she’d lure you in, but hey, there’s always another way. And here we are. My reinforcements are en route, Mr. Blake. Flee now, or you won’t make it out.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Georgia-May says. “Go, Coco needs you.”

Her tone reveals a familiarity I know all too well. She’s somehow retaliating. Even as she’s being dragged backward, her right arm covertly maneuvers behind her captor.

“Let. Her. Go!” I demand again, my grip firm on the gun in my right hand while my wounded left throbs. Proof that I’m still fighting, still breathing, and utterly unstoppable.

“Go ahead, shoot,” the man mocks. “I won’t kill her, Mr. Blake. But there’s a nine in ten chance that you will. Most likely a shot to her head. Sound familiar?”

I breathe heavily. This bastard knows more about me than I thought. And he’s right. The odds are brutally against me. The poor lighting, Georgia-May’s precarious position, and my untrained hand gripping the weapon. The risk of hitting her far outweighs any hope of a precise shot.

“Blake, listen to me!” Georgia-May shouts. “Take care of Coco.”

I study her. The only thing my adversary can do now is shoot me, but I can withstand any bullets he throws at me. All that matters is buying Georgia-May the crucial seconds she needs to execute whatever plan she’s concocting.

“Remember what she says when she wants a bath?” Behind her plea, there’s something in the back of the man’s jeans that she’s trying to retrieve.

Duck!

Crouching down, I startle the hooded man into firing his weapon. As I roll away, a bullet zips past me.

No more acting weak. Georgia-May’s fist, clutching something solid, connects with the man’s face with a sickening thud. The impact is brutal, almost flooring him. In a fluid motion, she ducks, breaking free from his grasp and leaving him exposed—his face contorted with both shock and determination to target me again.

That’s the opening I’ve been waiting for. Trusting my less dominant hand, I take the shot, and the man crumbles to the ground.

But then, so do I. The surge of adrenaline wanes, and the loss of blood overwhelms me. But through the haze, I know Georgia-May is safe.

She rushes to my side, her voice a beacon. “Blake!”

I gaze upward at her towering silhouette. The flashlight beam is distant and dim, yet even in the absence of its glow or the slightest moonbeam, I can see her beautiful face.

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