Page 52 of Breathe
Wrath was the Erebus medic, so they didn’t need to go to the hospital if at all possible. And this time, he wouldn’t need Harbor General.
He was damned lucky it was only his knee and a crack to the head.
It could have been his life.
Forcing himself upright, Azrael carefully walked across the living room of the two-bedroom apartment. The front door stood wide open with the dim hallway light glowing from beyond.
Out there could be death waiting for him, but he had to take the chance. The windows had bars on them, so that wasn’t an option.
Sticking as close to the edge, he slipped out the open door and pressed his back to the wall. Using one hand, he reached back and pulled the apartment door closed.
The smell of piss and body odor was strong out in the hallway, but what did he expect from a run-down apartment owned by a slum lord on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Not all the apartments were in such disarray, but this one had to be at the top of the list.
Thankfully, the hallway was empty, and he made his way to the stairs. Now the decision was to take them down or up.
He went up.
He always felt better in high places. It made him feel like nobody could find him. Like he could disappear from the world.
And that was what he was going to do while he tried to make sense of what had happened.
The stairwell felt damp, the smell of mold strong, and he gripped the paint-chipped railing with one gloved hand as he made his way upward to the roof. He didn’t have to force the roof access open because they’d come in from that way.
So when Azrael stepped out onto the darkly covered surface with its large broken air conditioners, it felt familiar.
He wondered if Rebel had gotten far enough away to call for backup.
Out on the roof, Azrael was alone.
Making his way to the edge where the fire escape led down to the alley below, he stopped.
His head swam, and he wasn’t sure if he could make the climb down.
The whole area up here was dark, so what did it matter? Nobody could see him up here. Turning around, Azrael sankto his ass and tucked his back against the short wall that surrounded the roof.
His gloves felt sticky and he was tempted to take them off, but rule number one was to never leave evidence.
Azrael gave a slight scoff. What evidence? There hadn’t been a crime committed, so nothing was getting reported, and there was nothing to call the cleaners for.
Because…he had failed.
He had failed in his mission. He had failed to get the job done.
The job had been simple.
He was the problem, he was the loser.
Not only had he failed at his job, but he failed at capturing Real’s heart.
Why?
Why didn’t Real love him?
A harsh sound escaped his throat, and he fought it back with sheer will. The failed job wasn’t going to miraculously get done, nor was Real going to suddenly love him.
And he needed to get that into his stupid head.
Real, along with Crow, was parked in a borrowed SUV. Their vehicle sat just down the street from the apartment building where the man who shot Apollo supposedly lived.
