Page 70 of Forbidden Confessions: Vol. 2
My mind races as I sprint for the corner. He’s squeezed off ten rounds with that Glock—I recognize the sound—and if he’s got a standard mag, he has five remaining shots.
That’s a lot of bullets to outrun.
Thankfully, he misses with the next two. Then he swings the car around, heading straight for the fence before plowing it over.
So much for the front end of his shiny Mercedes. But that’s not my concern.
He floors it, all the power of his horses zooming down on me.
I press myself against the building, cursing the fact that the facade has been torn off, stripping it down to white. I’m wearing head-to-toe black. There’s nowhere to hide.
I’m fucked.
Another shot misses narrowly when it pings against the plaster less than a foot from my ribs. He keeps hauling ass, and the next round comes even closer, inches from my head.
One more bullet in his mag, and the corner is in sight.
Almost there…
The guy—he might not be using an assassin’s weapon, but he shoots as well as one—takes aim. Finally, I reach the corner of the building, and I yank myself toward it and freedom when he takes his last shot.
It digs through the left side of my neck, burning like a bitch.
Blood spurts and seeps. If the asshole nicked my artery—and he fucking might have—I’ve got minutes to live.
I can’t panic. I’m out of his view and, bleeding or not, if I intend to escape and call for help, it’s got to be now.
I drag myself to my car, feeling warm blood trickling down my chest to be absorbed by my rain-damp shirt. I fumble for my keys, knowing this SOB won’t be far behind. He’ll change his magazine and hunt me down. It’s what I’d do to my mark.
But I see he’s already planned ahead since I have four flat tires.
This isn’t random. He knows my car. He knows me on sight.
He’s marked me for death.
Fuck, I will not lie here and die in a goddamn wet alley, victim of some unseen shooter for a cause I didn’t have a chance to snuff out.
But what about Havana? I can’t risk her. I can’t drag her into danger.
But you want to claim her? Marry her? Breed her?
I hope like fuck the would-be killer on my tail has no idea why I’m here. I have to warn her. If I can disappear into the vet’s office before my blood leaves a trail, he’ll be none the wiser. But I’ve got to be smart. I have to misdirect him before I dare approach Havana.
Two stores short of the vet’s back door, I pick the lock on what used to be a drugstore and toss it half open. When I was casing the lot earlier, I noticed the space hadn’t been completely cleared of merchandise. If my pursuer gives chase on foot, he’s likely to think I holed up in there to find supplies that might stem the bleeding.
Blackness floats at the edge of my vision. More liquid warmth mingles with the rain oozing down my chest. I can’t press a hand to it yet, or the second I touch the vet’s door handle, I’ll leave a bloody print for this fucker to follow.
Limping and dizzy, I finally reach the doggy doctor’s back door. There’s not much of a lock, and I’m in ten seconds later.
If I survive this night and Havana wants to keep working here, I’ll be installing something a lot sturdier.
Breathing hard, I ease the door shut just as an engine revs and zooms down the alley.
It never stops, simply roaring down the narrow pathway, almost careening into a dumpster.
I dare to crack the door, and I understand instantly. Someone called the police, and a squad car now chases my assailant.
That should occupy him for a few minutes.
