Page 109 of Doomed
We race across the manicured lawn, my bare feet sinking into damp grass. A piercing wail cuts through the night—alarms blaring from every corner of the estate. Red lights flash, illuminating the gardens in an eerie, pulsing glow.
“They’ve triggered the security system,” Landon pants beside us. “We’ve got maybe two minutes before?—”
The crack of gunfire interrupts him. Bullets tear into the ground at our feet, kicking up dirt and grass.
“Get down!” Knox shoves me behind a stone fountain. Water sprays over us as bullets shatter the stone cherub above.
More guards pour from the main house, at least ten of them armed and closing in fast. They’re shouting in Russian, their voices harsh against the blaring alarms.
“We’re not going to make it like this,” Landon calls from behind a tree. “They’ve got us pinned. We need to fight, or one of us is taking a bullet!”
Knox’s eyes meet mine. “Stay down,” he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Before I can respond, he rises into an offensive stance, gun extended. Two rapid shots—the first catches a guard in the neck, blood spraying in a fine mist. The second lands square between the next guard’s eyes.
Two more shots, two more bodies drop. Knox moves with terrifying precision, each bullet finding its mark with brutal efficiency. I should be horrified and questioning what kind of man can take lives with such coldness. It’s like ice runs through his veins. His entire demeanor has changed. His monster has been freed—and it didn’t come to lose.
My stomach clenches with arousal. He’s protecting me. Saving me. Each shot fired hits its mark effortlessly, ensuring that I stay alive.
“Jesus, Knox,” Landon breathes, almost admiringly.
Knox doesn’t respond, focused entirely on eliminating the threat between us and freedom. His body is a statue of power—unfaltering, eyes sharp as he tracks movement, anticipating where guards will appear before they do.
“Stop gawking and help me, Landon!” Knox snaps, not taking his eyes off the approaching guards.
Landon snaps out of his momentary lapse and moves into position. His movements are different from Knox’s—more cautious, less instinctive—but equally lethal. Where Knox’s shots are quick and aggressive, Landon’s are patient and precise. He waits for the perfect moment before squeezing the trigger, and I watch in horrified fascination as three more guards fall in rapid succession.
I press myself against the cool stone of the fountain, trying to make myself as small as possible. Water cascades down my back, soaking through the fabric of Knox’s hoodie. My fingers grip the rough edges until they ache.
Suddenly, the gunfire pauses. The guards seem to be regrouping.
“Now!” Knox yells, grabbing my hand. “It’s time. Run!”
We sprint across the remaining stretch of lawn, Landon covering our backs. My lungs burn, and my bare feet sting against the gravel path. The SUV sits idling at the gate, Vane behind the wheel, engine rumbling impatiently. Xavier watches from the passenger seat, expression unreadable.
Knox practically throws me into the backseat before diving in after me. Landon jumps in last, slamming the door as Vane floors it. The SUV lurches forward with a roar.
“Thanks for the assist, X. You too, Vane,” Knox says sarcastically, pulling me against him protectively. “Really appreciated the backup.”
“Someone had to be ready for a quick getaway,” Vane drawls, swerving sharply onto the main road. “Besides, you looked like you had it handled.”
Bullets ping against the rear of the vehicle, the metallic sounds making me flinch.
“Bulletproof,” Xavier comments without turning around. “Though I’d appreciate it if you’d close the rear gate next time before inviting a firefight.”
“Next time?” I gasp, my voice higher than normal.
“Figure of speech,” Knox murmurs into my hair, arms tightening around me. “There won’t be a next time. I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”
The SUV accelerates down the dark road, leaving the estate and its guards far behind.
38
KNOX
The adrenaline courses through my veins as we pull into the underground garage of our safe house on the outskirts of the city. It’s an unmarked property we keep off the books—a place to regroup when shit hits the fan. Unlike Ilya, this place has no connection to any of us or our businesses. It’s held in a trust that is managed by a British attorney we helped out of a jam when we first set out on this path in life.
“Everyone inside,” Xavier commands, already heading toward the entrance. “We need to plan our next move.”
