Page 88 of Web of Lies
My heart slams against my ribs, panic clawing at my chest. I glance at Kyle again. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't even twitch. It's as if having his life threatened is routine for him. His shouldersare squared; his eyes locked on Jackson with the patience of a predator. His fingers curl tighter around his gun, and I know he's ready.
"You really think you're in control here, Jackson? You've got nothing but a big mouth." Kyle says through a scoff.
Jackson sneers, flashing his teeth. "Don't test me. I'll drop you where you stand. You think your reputation scares me? I've dealt with worse men than you."
Kyle tilts his head. "I can only think of one person worse than me, and he's walking free."
Jackson's nostrils flare as his knuckles turn white around the grip of his gun. His eyes flick back to me, then to Kyle, like he's calculating which one of us he wants to shoot first.
"10," Jackson starts, his voice steady.
"You think counting makes you scary? That's kid stuff, Philips."
Jackson ignores him, his glare pinned on me. "9." The pause after stretches. "8," he says, dragging the number out. "7."
My pulse spikes, thundering in my ears. "Wait," I blurt out.
"Wrong answer," Jackson snaps. The gunshot cracks like thunder, the sound tearing through the night air. My heart lurches as Kyle jerks back from the force of the bullet. The scream that rips from my throat feels raw, tearing through me. My vision tunnels, black creeping at the edges. The folder slips from my hand, papers scattering across the floor. Instinctively, my body moves before my mind can catch up. My free hand laces around the one gripping my gun, steadying my hold, and I pull the trigger. The shot explodes, the kickback slamming through my arms and shoulders, leaving my muscles buzzing. The bullet rips into Jackson's shoulder, spinning him off balance. He stumbles backward, blood spraying from the wound, soaking through his jacket.
I freeze, chest heaving with shallow gasps, the gun shaking in my trembling hands. My eyes lock on him, horror and adrenaline crashing inside me. But Jackson doesn't fall. He doesn't stop. His face twists into something feral, pain blending with rage. He drags himself forward, his boots scraping against the rooftop. His teeth grit as he lifts his arm, blood dripping from his sleeve, his gun rising again. "You stupid bitch," he growls, his voice thick with fury, as the barrel of his gun points at me.
"No." The word slips out in a whisper, barely audible over the pounding in my ears. Without thinking twice, I pull the trigger again, and the deafening explosion rips through the air. The recoil rattles through my bones as the bullet slams into Jackson’s other shoulder. Another painful scream rips from his throat, and he crashes to his knees.
Suddenly, beside me, a guttural grunt draws my attention. Kyle stumbles forward, his arm shoots up, and he pulls the trigger of his gun. The shot splits the night. Jackson's body jerks violently, his face contorting as the bullet slams into him. He collapses onto the rooftop with a heavy thud, but Kyle doesn't stop. His finger squeezes the trigger again. And again. And again. Each shot slams into Jackson's twitching body, the sound deafening, the recoil pounding through the air in rhythm with my racing heart. Flesh tears, blood sprays dark against the plastic sheets flapping in the wind. The stench of gunpowder mingles with the iron-rich scent of burning flesh in my nostrils.
Even when Jackson's head snaps to the side as a bullet pierces through his skull, even when the twitching slows, Kyle doesn't stop. He keeps walking forward, step after step, unloading the rest of his magazine into the body at his feet. The wet thuds of bullets tearing through meat until his magazine empties with a final click.
My chest heaves, my hands shaking violently around my gun. The sight makes my stomach twist, bile burning at the back of my throat. It's brutal. It's sick. And yet the relief that Kyle is still moving, still alive, slams into me so hard it knocks me off my feet.
The world stands still. The rooftop, the city beyond, even the night air—it all fades into nothing but the rush of blood in my ears and the violent thud of my heart hammering in my chest. My lungs seize, locking up and refusing to let in air.
Kyle turns from Jackson's shredded body, his steps heavy. His eyes lock on mine, as if he hasn't quite broken out of his violent haze yet. Slowly, his fingers curl into the fabric of his balaclava, and he yanks it off. His face is tense, every twitch of the muscles around his eyes betraying the adrenaline running through him.
My gaze drags over his body, searching for any sign of blood. His black hoodie is torn, fabric stretched, and frayed where the bullet hit. My stomach lurches and a knot of dread forms in my chest. But there's no red. No bleeding.
"It's just going to be one hell of a bruise," he says, as if he read the panic written all over my face. He lifts it, revealing the dull black of a bulletproof vest with a small dent where Jackson shot him.
The gunshot echoes in my head, each one replaying louder than the last. My stomach twists so violently it feels like my insides are being wrung out. Nausea climbs up my throat, hot and sour. My eyes stay locked on Kyle, his face contorted, one arm wrapped tight across his stomach.
He was shot. He could've died.
The thought alone is enough to break whatever fragile control I had left. The weight of everything crashes into me all at once—the blood, the body, the smell of gunpowder still hanging thick in the air.
My body betrays me. I spin away from him, my knees bending as I fold forward. The bitter taste of bile floods my mouth as the contents of my stomach force their way up, spilling onto the rooftop floor. My chest heaves, my whole body spasming with every wave that rips through me. I can't stop. Can't breathe. Can't think.
Suddenly, a warm weight presses against my back. Kyle's hand rests flat against my spine, rubbing slow, soothing circles as my body rebels, muscles spasming with every rush of acid up my throat.
"Easy, Baby," he murmurs. The distortion of the voice changer is gone now, leaving only his real voice. "It's okay. Breathe. I've got you."
"Is it over?" I whisper, gasping for air, the acid from the bile clinging to my throat and burning with every breath.
"Almost," Kyle says, and I tilt my head to meet his gaze. He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a small burner phone, holding it out to me.
"What is this?" My fingers curl around the device as I take it from him.
"The last step," he says with his gaze locked on mine.
I lower my eyes to the outdated device, thumb hovering before flying across the keys, and the old pixelated screen flickers to life, showing only one number. My stomach churns as another wave of bile threatens its escape, but I press the call button, anyway. It rings once. Silence. It rings again, and just as the sound fades, the call connects.
