Page 68 of Last Hand

I hear Nathan gasp behind me. He’s spotted Rebecca’s body again, the reality of her stillness finally sinking in. I don’t have time to check on him, to offer empty words of comfort. Fallon’s all I see. All that matters right now.

Milo meets me at the barn’s edge, appearing like a ghost at my side. His face is spattered with blood, none of it his own. He unsheathes his knife with one hand, his gun gripped in the other. We lock eyes for half a second—no words needed. Over twenty years together distilled into a glance.

We burst in, guns raised, moving in perfect tandem. The barn is dimly lit by a single bulb hanging from a rafter, and I can hear the soft whirring of what must be a generator somewhere. Dust motes dance in the beam of light, swirling in our wake. The smell of rotted old hay and wood mingles with the dust.

Mikhail has Fallon in the center of the barn, the barrel of his gun pressed to her temple. Blood runs down his arm from the shoulder wound, all while his hand is steady. His eyes flick between me and Milo, calculating and cold.

“Put your weapons down,” he snarls. “Or I blow her brains out right here.”

I keep my gun trained on him, looking for an opening, an angle, anything. There isn’t one. The position is too perfect—he’susing her as a shield, the gun too firmly pressed against her head for any margin of error.

Fallon’s eyes meet mine, and I lift my hands slowly. “Alright,” I say carefully. “Alright.” I bend, setting my gun on the dusty barn floor. “Milo,” I say without turning.

Milo hesitates. His jaw ticks, the only sign of the war raging inside him. Then he drops his pistol, the clatter loud in the tense silence.

“The blade, too,” Mikhail snarls.

Milo’s eyes narrow, and he reluctantly tosses his knife. It lands point-down, sticking in the wooden floor between us and Mikhail.

Bang.

The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. Milo gasps, staggering backward. Fallon screams, the sound tearing from her throat. Blood blooms across Milo’s shirt, just below his collarbone. He presses his hand to the wound, his face a mask of surprise more than pain when another bang rings out knocking him backward, this one hitting the dead center of his chest.

I move without thinking, rage obliterating everything else.

Mikhail shifts, pressing the barrel tighter to Fallon’s head as he forces her to her knees. “Another step and she’s dead!” he barks, his voice echoing off the barn walls.

I stop. Heart pounding. Fallon’s eyes aren’t on me—they’re on Milo. The look on her face speaks volumes. I’ve seen it before, that specific kind of helpless fury. The look of someone watching someone they care about suffer, unable to stop it. My body vibrates with the need to destroy him. Rip him apart. Tear him limb from fucking limb. I can’t. Not yet. Not while he has that gun to her head.

“You’ve lost, Leone,” Mikhail says, his accent thickening with pain and adrenaline. “Your casino, your territory, and now her.” He tightens his grip on Fallon’s hair, making her wince. “I’mgoing to walk out of here with her, and if you try to follow, I’ll mail her back to you in pieces.”

Fallon’s eyes shift to mine. And then she moves.

Fallon twists, driving her elbow back into Mikhail’s groin with every ounce of strength she has. He grunts, doubling over, his grip on the gun faltering for just an instant. That’s all I need.

I launch myself at him, crossing the distance in two strides. We crash to the ground. His gun goes skittering across the floor. I drive my fist into his face, feeling his nose shatter under my knuckles. He bucks beneath me and manages to land a blow to my ribs that steals my breath.

We roll, grappling in the dirt and hay. I taste blood—mine or his, I can’t tell. All I know is the consuming need to end him, to make him pay for every bruise on Fallon’s skin, for Milo’s blood on the floor, for Rebecca’s body cooling in the yard.

He claws at my eyes. I snap my head back, then drive it forward, smashing my forehead into his already broken nose. He howls, blood spraying across the floor as I reach into my boot for my blade, just as he manages to shove me off.

SIXTEEN

Fallon

“Milo!” I drop to my knees beside him, the floor gritty against my skin, my heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. Blood pools beneath his still form, dark and accusing in the dim light. My hands shake as I reach for him, fingers already slick with red. Not him. Not Milo. Not now.

I scramble to roll him over, my breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He’s heavy, dead weight – no, not dead, I can’t think that word and I strain against his bulk. When I finally manage to turn him, he gasps sharply, the sound like a gift in my ears. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, a thin crimson line tracking down his stubbled jaw.

My hands press against his chest, searching for the wound, for the tear in fabric that would mean a bullet found its mark. Instead, my fingers encounter something hard and uneven beneath his shirt. I freeze, comprehension dawning slowly through my panic.

“You’re wearing a vest,” I whisper, the words barely audible even to my own ears. Relief floods through me, so powerful it makes me dizzy. I rip open his shirt, buttons flying, to reveal the black body armor underneath. It’s dented where the bulletstruck, still it held. “You fucking bastard—you scared the shit out of me.” I blurt grabbing his shoulders only for him to hiss and I realize one at least got him, the one beneath his collarbone.

Milo groans, his eyes fluttering, struggling to focus on my face. There’s pain there, lots of it – a vest stopped the bullet from penetrating. However, the straps holding it to him aren’t bulletproof, so it doesn’t stop the impact. He’s alive. He’s breathing.

“Stay still,” I order, my voice stronger now. “You’ve been shot.”

His lips twitch in what might be an attempt at a smile. “Felt it,” he manages, each word clearly costing him.

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