Page 110 of Can't Stop Watching
"That's the difference between us, Claire," I say, my voice low and even. "I didn't enjoy killing your brother. It was necessary, like putting down a sick animal. But you..." I shake my head. "You got off on this whole elaborate game. And now you think you're a victim. Who's pathetic?"
I hear them before I see them: boots on polished floor, coming hard and fast. Three seconds tops.
Claire's face transforms, evil blooming across it like a time-lapse of something rotting. That smile… she knows the cavalry's coming. She called them.
"Get down!" I roar at Lila, lunging toward her as a man runs in with weapons already up. Two more staying outside. These aren't rent-a-cops. These are professional hitters from the look of them.
I throw myself over Lila as the first rounds hit the wall, feeling her collapse beneath me. My body becomes her shield, my back exposed to whatever's coming. It's instinct, notheroism, though the line between the two is probably thinner than most people think.
A bullet punches into my shoulder, a white-hot brand of pain that makes my vision swim. My blood spatters across Lila's face as I press her down, keeping my weight on my good arm. Behind us, Brian's corpse takes a round meant for me. It's only in death that the bastard finally does something useful.
Through the chaos, I catch Claire slipping out the back door—a shadow vanishing into shadows. The bitch planned this all along. Of course she did.
"Stay down," I hiss to Lila, gritting my teeth against the molten agony spreading through my shoulder. Each heartbeat pumps more blood out, each breath costs more than the last.
The gunmen adjusts his aim, and in that split-second recalculation, I see my opening. Maybe it's the military training, maybe it's just the clarity that comes when death's breathing down your neck, but time slows as I raise my weapon with my good arm.
We lock eyes, him and me, that moment of mutual recognition between professionals. I'm bleeding out over the woman I'm falling for, and he's just doing a job. Nothing personal.
I squeeze the trigger anyway.
My shot catches the gunman center mass. He drops like a sack of meat, his weapon clattering across the floor. I allow myself half a second of satisfaction before reality crashes back in. My shoulder's on fire, Lila's trembling beneath me, there are more men outside, and Brian Langford's cooling corpse is our only company in this fucked-up tableau.
"We need to move," I whisper to Lila.
I try to push myself up, but my left arm refuses to cooperate, just dead weight hanging from my shoulder socket. Bloodsoaks my shirt, running warm down my side. Physics becomes negotiable when you're operating on pure adrenaline and spite.
"Dane, you're—" Lila's eyes widen, fixed on something behind me.
The doorway fills with two more silhouettes—bigger and meaner than the first guy. The world narrows to simple math: two guys, one gun, fourteen bullets left in this magazine, and fuck-all chance of walking away.
I roll off Lila, shoving her under the conference table with my good arm. "Stay there!"
Pain explodes as my wounded shoulder hits the floor, but it buys me the angle I need. I fire from my back. One, two shots at the guy on the left. He jerks backward but doesn't fall. Not yet.
The second guy opens fire, bullets splintering the wood above Lila's head. I nearly empty my magazine in his direction, not bothering to aim properly, just trying to keep them distracted long enough to think.
I'm down to three rounds when the first guy finally crumples, my lucky shot finding the gap in his body armor at the armpit. He falls with an expression of mild surprise, like he's just realized he left his keys at home.
"Two down," I mutter through gritted teeth.
My vision swims as blood loss starts catching up with my bravado. The shoulder wound's bad, but manageable. What's concerning is the second hit I didn't even feel, a hot slice across my side that's leaking steadily. Shock's a hell of an anesthetic.
The second guy has better training. He's using cover, making himself a smaller target. Smart. Annoying.
"Dane!" Lila's voice comes from beneath the table. Terrified.
I haul myself to my feet, blood seeping through my fingers where I'm clutching my side. The world tilts and steadies, tilts and steadies. My body's running on fumes and fury now.
"Dane, don't!" Lila hisses from under the table.
I shoot her a look that says everything I can't waste breath saying. This ends now. Here's the problem with happiness, the second you taste it, the universe starts calculating what it'll cost you. But I won't let anyone hurt Lila, especially when I'm to blame.
"Stay down," I mutter, stumbling forward. My boots leave bloody footprints on the floor.
My every sense sharpens. The metallic tang of blood in my mouth. The burn of torn muscle. The weight of the gun, suddenly as natural as my own pulse.
I advance toward the door, my shadow stretched long behind me. The remaining gunman will expect me to be tactical, to use cover.
