Page 75 of You Don’t Kiss Your Brother's Best Friends

Approaching the wing assigned to Victor Knox and his men, I edged slowly around the corner. One man stood in the hallway. He looked lost and nervous, and not remotely comfortable. New and unimportant and totally expendable.

And of course, absolutely perfect.

“What are you doing!” I shouted, as I stepped into the hall.

The man scrambled for the gun at his hip, which looked like a Beretta. He placed his hand over it, but didn’t draw.

I walked the hallway like I owned it. Most times, especially times like this, confidence trumped everything.

“You’re supposed to be downstairs!” I shouted.

Still wary, the man tilted his head in confusion.

“No!” he protested. “No, I was told—”

“Victor’s pissed,” I growled, as I kept walking. “I mean,reallypissed.”

He looked uncertain. Uncertainty was good. Uncertainty bought me a few more steps.

“W—who the hell are you?” he demanded. The hand folded over the gun trembled a little. “Shouldn’t you be in the kitch—”

“I’ve never seen him like this,” I interjected, shaking my head. “In fact—”

I closed the rest of the distance, taking the last few steps in a blur of speed. He got the gun out, but he never brought it around. Grabbing his wrist, I snapped it so hard in the wrong direction the man screamed.

The Beretta clattered to the floor, and he made the mistake of looking down at it. It was the last thing he saw before he kissed the wall. I grabbed him by the back of the head, rotated my hips, and slammed him face-first with every ounce of my body weight behind me. There was a sickening crunch, a heavy thud, and ultimately, silence.

The door the man had been guarding glowed steady red. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my keycard and tossed it away. I reached again, and this time produced the master keycard I’d taken off Jacob Foley, right before sinking him into the muck at the bottom of the swamp.

I held the card against the reader, and the light turned immediately green.

“Fuck yeah.”

I grabbed the Beretta, which immediately felt at home in my hand. The electronic door whirred, and I pushed it open with my back still pressed against the wall. When no one took a shot at me, I made my way cautiously inside.

I was met by soft whimpering, and the sight of blood.

“Jesus, Raif.”

Lots of blood.

“What the hell happened?”

Raif was slumped forward in the chair in the middle of the room, only half-conscious. His hands had been secured firmly behind him, the zip-ties so savagely tight his wrists were chaffed and bleeding. More blood streamed from an ugly gash on his head. It flowed down the left side of his face, staining the gag in his mouth a dark, angry red.

The gag was tied tightly behind his head. He groaned as I undid the knot, and sighed in relief as I pulled it away.

“W—Who are you?” he breathed, his voice ragged.

“You know who I am. I’m Andre Bowman.”

Somehow he managed to look up at me. Even lifting his chin was a struggle.

“No.”

“Yes,” I countered gently. “You hired me, remember?”

But Raif wasn’t dazed or even confused. He looked me up and down with eyes that were tired, but lucid.

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