Page 57 of Twisted Trust
“Keep looking!” I yell as if he needs to be told such a thing. My thighs burn with the heat of a thousand squats and my feet pound each step as I leap up staircase after staircase, counting each floor with a curse in my breath as seventeen is just too far away.
“They’re coming down,” Chip yells from the staircase below. “Fifteen!”
We meet on floor thirteen in the stairwell. A man dressed in all black skids to a stop on the landing and stares down at me as I claw my way up the stairs toward him. Scott dangles by the arm from the man’s fist, kicking and screaming his little head off in terror. He’s fighting like his life depends on it, and when those gigantic, tear-filled, gold eyes lock onto mine, something cold seeps through my chest.
The panic running rampant in my chest calms like Scott’s glance is a soothing balm. There’s nothing left but a stone-cold resolve.
The assassin spots it too and he hauls ass away from me through the door and through floor thirteen. I’m hot on his heels and he only makes it a handful of steps before I catch up to him.
Launching myself forward, I slam my boot into the small of the assassin’s back and send him sprawling forward with an alarmed cry. Scott is flung up in the air, and I throw myself onto the ground just in time to catch him with my chest. He screams and then he’s jerked away from me by Chip, who immediately turns his back to protect Scott.
White-hot rage consumes me as I stand and face the scrambling assassin who fights to get his handgun out of his thigh holster. A swift, sharp kick sends the gun spiraling away until it hits the wall. The man leaps to his feet and starts throwing rapid jabs at me. Left, right, down, left, and right again. He moves faster than me but when his fist collides with my shoulder, I grab his wrist and twist so he stumbles into me.
His face smashes into my elbow and snaps back while I twist his arm around my own body and slam my elbow into his face once more. He gasps and spins to escape my grip, but what I lack in speed, I make up for in strength. His wrist is caught in my iron grip and the small bones grind together as we grapple in the hallway.
He uses the wall for leverage and tries to throw me off balance. I drag him with me, lift his arm, and bring it down hard on my raised knee. Bone snaps and he screams briefly. I cut him off with a blow to the throat and he falls. Before I know it, I’m on top of him holding him by the collar and punching him repeatedly in the face.
My knuckles ache and my shoulder burns, but it’s all a distant thought as my fist repeatedly smashes into the man’s face until his balaclava is utterly drenched in blood and gore. His nose breaks under my fist, his eye socket swells beyond recognition, and by the time stiffness in my shoulder prevents me from punching him again, his jaw slopes loosely to the side as his balaclava all but fades from his face.
“A kid?” I hiss down at him, spitting venom. “You’d hurt a fuckingchild?”
Picking myself up slowly, I deliver a swift kick to the man’s ribs. Standing over him, his remaining eye flickers and blood drools past his swollen, bruised lips along with some sort of noise that sounds like speech.
I have no stomach for whatever excuse might fall from the asshole’s throat. I lift my boot and look him directly in the eye, then I slam my foot down on his head once. Twice. Three times until he’s a motionless, dead wreck on the ground.
My next gasp feels like my very first breath since I laid eyes on the fucker, and then I hear it.
Scott sobbing.
I freeze like a bucket of ice has just been dumped right over my head and slowly lift my gaze to Chip, who thankfully still has his back turned and Scott hidden from view. The thought that Scott might have witnessed even a fraction of my brutality sickens me, but thanks to Chip, he was protected.
The urge to step toward him rises, but I hesitate when I glimpse my reflection in the protective glass of one of the skewed paintings we dislodged in the fight. Beating that asshole has sprayed blood all over my torso and face, both my fists are soaked in blood and flecks of gore, and my expression is twisted in fury. It would be cruel to face Scott like this.
But before I can move, Chip yelps as one of Scott’s wriggling legs clips him in the nuts and he doubles over slightly. Scott slips from his arms and hits the ground, but he quickly picks himself up and then he’s running toward me with his arms outstretched.
What do I do? Do I reach for him? Do I comfort him?
My countless questions answer themselves when Scott slams into my shin and latches onto my leg, burying his face against my knee. I sink to the floor immediately and wrap my arms around Scott, hugging my own elbows to keep my bloodied fists away from him. Holding him close to my chest, a strange bubble inflates inside my chest. It blocks the beat of my heart, blocks my ability to breathe, and for a few long seconds, with Scott sobbing in my ear, I accept it.
“Where’s my m–mom?” Scott sobs brokenly, his little hands clutching at my neck. “Where is she?”
That bubble bursts and warmth seeps through my chest. Adjusting my grip, I scoop Scott up in my arms and approach Chip as he recovers from a sharp kick in the balls. “I’m going to find your mom, okay?” I say as gently as I can manage with fury still twitching through my muscles. “I’ll find her, I promise.”
Scott’s head snaps back and he looks up at me with tears pouring down his cheeks and his face flushed and red. “But you didn’t find Uncle Cameron!”
Six words have never caused me as much pain as those did and my reply catches in my throat. Chip steps in and tries to detangle Scott from my arms, but the kid’s fists become like iron locks and he refuses to let me go.
“Your mom is the most important, okay?” I say softly. “I will find her. I promise you, I will find her.” It’s instinctual but suddenly, I’m kissing Scott’s forehead as Chip finally manages to take him from my arms. This time, he remains in Chip’s arms, weeping himself hoarse, but I can still feel him in my arms, a strange, warm weight that lingers like a phantom.
The brief silence is broken by my phone crackling to life with a call from one of the security teams.
“We’ve got her!” a voice barks down the line. “Three men and an unconscious woman on the roof. We’ve got them pinned down but can’t take a shot.”
“I’m on my way. Chip?” Hanging up the call, I don’t need to say anything else as a silent promise passes between us. He’ll take care of Scott. I’ll take care of Maeve.
It takes me far too long to sprint the rest of the stairs up to the roof. A few floors below the penthouse, I discover what my men meant by being unable to take a shot. My security team holds the stairwell and the assassins are on the roof. It’s a stalemate until they work out that there’s a fire escape.
I make a beeline for it through the floor just beneath the penthouse. After kicking down the door of the hotel room whenno one answers, I grab a dining chair as I pass and launch it at the window. Glass shatters immediately and rains down onto the wrought iron fire escape that winds up the back of the building. It’s not the safest route and hasn’t been used in decades due to modern fire measures within the hotel, but it works for me.
