Page 91 of What Doesn't Kill Her

Max pulled off his glove and showed her his knuckles, scraped, battered and bloody. “I promise you he did not.”

She had grown used to thinking of herself as a warrior, trained by the US Army and honed by battle into a weapon. She handled things like snipers who hunted by night. Max was a civilian, and everything she knew about him made her think he was a particularly kind, conscientious and generous one. Yet... “Max, what did you do?”

“I beat the bastard to a pulp.”

She wet her lips. “You don’t fight. You said so. You said you were clean as a whistle.”

“I said I didn’t fight, not that I didn’t know how.” In the predawn light, his brow looked black with anger and frustration.

“But you don’t kill people,” she insisted.

“I would have. I wanted to. Zone stopped me.” Max helped her hold the canteen to her lips and drink. “When Ettore Fontina kidnapped my niece, I didn’t kill him, and he destroyed you. Us. I swore I would never allow someone to destroy us again.”

This was not the Max she knew. He looked different, sounded stern, uncompromising, a man who had suffered through years of pain for his perceived sin—letting a man who hurt Kellen and his niece live to hurt again. He said, “Zone recognized the sniper. He was a professional, an assassin for hire. He said the assassin would never give up. He said he would handle matters, and he took the assassin away.”

“Took him away, like to law enforcement?”

“I doubt it.” Clearly Max expected Zone to handle the matter in a final way—and he was glad.

“Will we ever discover what happened to the body?”

“No.”

“Okay. Someone is trying to kill me.” Her brain clicked off the instances. “Roderick dropped a roof tile on me. If it had hit, that would have made my death look like a bizarre accident.”

“But an accident nonetheless.”

“Horst was after the Triple Goddess. So were his accomplices. But someone murdered Horst, and that’s when the game changed.”

Max helped her, solicitous and worried. “Those men chasing you up the mountain. They ignored the head when you offered it. Now they’re dead. All of them.”

“For failure? For knowing too much? Roderick is the first assassin. We need to talk to him.” She used Max and the boulder to get to her feet. Her knees wobbled, but she could stand.

Max rolled the sleeping bag and stuffed it into his backpack. “What did Roderick say to you? At the hospital when they were wheeling him away? What did he say?”

“He said...” In her mind, she saw him again: bulging blue eyes, focused on her, hand outstretched to grab her throat. For one moment, she felt faint. Not unconscious, but fearful. “He said, ‘Run, bitch.’”

Max looked up sharply. “You didn’t think to tell methat?”

“You didn’t think to ask? I thought he was a nutcase and an alcoholic. Climbing on the roof, throwing fit after fit, abusing everyone who tried to help him...” She pressed her bare palms to the cold, hard stone, letting the strength of the earth seep into her bones.

“He was warning you.”

“Not much of an assassin then.”

“You climbed up to him. You saved his life.”

“So...repayment? Morals from an assassin?”

“Yes. Maybe.” Max continued to pick up, clean up, delete the marks of their presence. “We have to get out of these mountains. I can carry you.”

“Not easily. I weigh a ton.” She punched at her ribs. “Solid muscle.” She smiled at him, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

Didn’t work. He was grim and intense. “You were unconscious for hours. You shouldn’t be—”

“I’m conscious now.” She put her hand on his arm. “Really, Max. My head hurts—I hit pretty hard, but death hasn’t come for me yet.”

He took her hand and held it.

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