Page 78 of Cage the Storm
A D’Angelo soldier lunges from a doorway. Nico disarms him with a brutal twist, slams the man’s skull into the wall, and seizes his rifle, one-handed. He fires three rounds down the hall without blinking.
“Stairs,” he orders, jerking his chin.
I grab the dead man’s knife. “After you.”
He snarls but doesn’t argue, his limp worsening with each step. The staircase ahead is littered with bodies. Nico grips the banister, holding himself up, his teeth bared in a silent scream.
Halfway down the stairs, his knee buckles.
I catch him under the arm, my fingers sinking into sweat-drenched muscle. “Let me?—”
“Don’t.” He shakes me off, knuckles white on the railing. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a liar.”
“And you’re distracting.” He staggers, each step a victory.
The first-floor landing is a graveyard of cement and gore. Soldiers and D’Angelo’s alike sprawl in pools of their own blood.
Nico scans the warehouse, his Glock trembling in his grip. “Down the hall to the left is the service exit.”
A subtle movement in the shadows turns my head.
Mateo fires first. The man drops, but the shot draws others. Boots pounding, shouts in guttural Italian.
“Run,” Nico grits, shoving me ahead.
We sprint, him leaning into Mateo as our feet echo off the walls. Blood drips from his fingertips, marking our trail.
The exit door is fifty feet away.
Forty.
Thirty.
A shot rings out. Nico jerks, a bullet grazes his thigh.
He crashes into me, twisting mid-fall, his elbow absorbing the impact. Mateo rages hellfire behind us.
“Go,” he rasps, pushing me toward the door.
“Not without you!” I haul him up, his arm slung over my shoulders. Bullets mutilate the doorframe as we burst into the courtyard. Massimo is in the driver’s seat, revving the engine.
“Move!” he shouts.
Nico collapses into the backseat, dragging me on top of him. His hands instantly fist in my hair. His breath hot against my lips. “Still here,” he gasps.
I press into the curve of his throat, chasing his pulse. “Barely.”
Mateo jumps in front, and the SUV rockets forward just as Nico’s eyes flutter shut. But his lips curve.
He’s alive.
CHAPTER SIXTY
NICOLAI
The airin the safehouse is stale, and it reeks of antiseptic and burnt coffee. I sit on the exam table, while the medic’s needle is pulling at my skin. Each stitch burns, but I barely feel it. I’ll be yanking off the god damn splints on my left fingers when Antonio leaves the room.
