Page 44 of Possession

Lucas told me about wrestling in high school. I could tell it was important to him, but I didn’t realize how good he was until now. He’s smaller than Briggs, but he’s quick and skilled. He twists himself around Briggs, gets him incapacitated—and stabs the shit out of him.

A shot fires, hitting the concrete wall near me. I duck instinctively and turn. I shoot someone I don’t know. It’s likely one of the guards of Crowley’s buddy.

I glance at Lucas, who’s making a mess of Briggs.

“Lucas!” I shout. “We have to go!”

He stabs Briggs again. I give him another second, which I use to put a bullet in Crowley’s smashed head, just in case.

I make another quick scan. More men are coming from the direction where Crowley’s buddy escaped. We’re out of time.

Lucas still has Briggs all twisted up, so I grab Briggs by his belt and haul him up. I pull Lucas up with him. Lucas finally lets go. I throw Briggs back to the ground. He’s not dead, but he’s unlikely to survive his wounds. I stomp on his face with my cleats anyway.

Then I grab Lucas’s hand and tug him along.

FIFTEEN

Lucas

I race down the stadium steps with Roman. His cleats are slipping on the smooth concrete, but he manages to get us down by the ice rink walls without either of us getting shot. The men he fought on the ice are long gone. He forces me in front of him, shielding my back with his body as we flee our pursuers.

I angle toward the main exit, but Roman snags my elbow and pulls me toward the team box. From there, we hurry down a dimly lit passageway to a door. We burst through into a locker room.

I race onward, but Roman barks, “Wait!”

I skid to a halt and spin wildly. Roman is locking the door. I didn’t think of that. I’m not thinking at all.

He moves my way. He touches my back. The touch means,come with me, don’t run. We walk to another door with a lighted exit sign and stop.

Roman pops the magazine from the gun he lifted from one of the guards. He does it expertly, not fumbling like I would with the unfamiliar thing. He used it expertly too. He shot several men with incredible accuracy.

As Roman started talking to me more, I tried to ask him about his life, but he always shut down. I had to stop asking.

“Were you in the military?” The question pops out. I don’t know why. It’s not the time for questions.

Roman’s eyes flick to me but return quickly to the magazine. He frowns like he’s not happy with the number of bullets. Or maybe he doesn’t like the way his hand is shaking.

“Why are you shaking so hard?”

I’m also shaking, so maybe I shouldn’t talk, but his shakiness looks different. He’s panting too, and dripping sweat. I’ve seen his post-fight aggression, but that’s not what this is. Something’s wrong with him.

Ignoring me, he slots the magazine back into the gun and rams it in with the heel of his hand.

Something’s wrong with me too because I can’t stop myself from blathering on. “Roman, you’re—”

He covers my mouth with his shaky hand. “We need a car,” he says.

Footsteps pound toward the door that Roman locked behind us. Thank god he thought to do that. Someone slams against the door. There’s muffled shouting, then the footsteps go pounding away.

“Stay here,” Roman orders as he pulls away from me and shoulders open the door to outside.

He storms out into the dark parking lot with his gun raised. As the door tries to swing shut, I catch it.

Out of sight around the side of the building, tires squeal as people flee. This parking lot, presumably for the players, is small, but there are several vehicles. A few of them are fancy cars. One is a big black van—and O’Neil is standing in front of it yelling into a radio.

“—the goddamn keys!” O’Neil’s head whips up. “Fuck!”

He drops the radio and reaches for his gun, but Roman fires first. O’Neil slams back against the van and crumples to the ground. He gasps and chokes like he can’t breathe.

---