Page 22 of Tortured Eyes
I scatter my hands again, yanking him closer and physically sticking my finger in the open bullet hole, somehow hoping I can stop the bleeding if I smother it.
“Help me!” I yell at her, pulling his head closer. "Nate? It's alright. Stay with me, yeah? It's alright."
Everything slumps in my grip, his neck and head flopping onto my thighs. No. Not him. He doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t … "It's gonna be fine. Just keep looking at me. You're alright." My throat tightens, tears fucking welling in my eyes as I try holding him upright some more, try something, anything. He coughs, laboured and futile, and another round of blood seeps down his chest onto me.
“Logan, surrender your gun!” she shouts at me. Fuck that.
“Log…” Nate splutters.
Another cough, another wheezed breath, and he tries moving, tries lifting his hand to my face. It barely makes it, one light finger touching me, and then it falls down with a thud, less than no energy left in it. I stare into his eyes, looking deep into them in the hope that I can save him like that, but there’s nothing but a blank face in front of me. A blank fucking look, glazed Cane eyes, and a final wheeze of breath.
My fingers still cling to the wound, still immerse themselves in the blood and the gore, trying to change the fucking inevitability staring me right in the heart. He's gone. Dead. I lean in,forehead resting on his and my body vibrating in anguish.
Nate Cane is dead.
“Get out the goddamn way,” she suddenly spits, pushing me.
I fall back slightly and watch as she lays him out flat, her hands all over him. Pulse first, then her head at his chest, and then chest compressions as if she can save him. She can’t. It means nothing now. Nothing. I saw it in his eyes, saw the light go out and the darkness take him under. He’s gone, and there’s fuck all either of us can do about it. Still, part of me watches on, as I wait for a miracle to happen. It’s not coming, though. Not now.
Not ever.
My fingers run through his hair, smearing blood through it, as I try to hang onto the feeling of warmth in his skin. He'll be cold soon. So goddamn cold. Blood trickles from his mouth. I wipe it, trying to cleanse the stain away. Nothing’s getting rid of this stain, though. Not one fucking thing.
I end up glaring at her frantically trying to save his life. She’s not saving it. She’s the one that fucking condemned it. That thought alone makes me snarl, part of me thinking about shooting her in the damn head for daring to touch him after what she’s caused. I don’t. I lean my head on the wall behind me, closing my eyes to everything. Just a few minutes peace. A few minutes, his warmth still in my hands, and then I’ll move. Do something. I just… Fuck. My head slams back. Why him? Out of all of us, why him?
His body stops moving in my hold after a while, and the realisation that she’s stopped working on him hits home like a fucking wrecking ball. I tense under the silence, letting the aggression and hatred and sheer fucking belligerence start coursing through me again. Her. It’s all her. She came here and fucked this up. Everything was fine before her and her fucking badge.
“I’m sorry, Logan. He’s gone,” she says quietly.
Gone.
My eyes open slowly to look at her, my hands unsure what the fuck to do. She’s covered in his blood, the side of her face smothered from where she’s been leaning into him. She moves back onto her knees and sits there, her hand reaching for her phone. Fuck the goddamned phone.
I keep my movements slow, easing him off my lap and onto the floor. He’s a mess. A goddamn mess of good intentions and bad results. All because of this fucking woman. A few more seconds of looking at him, of gazing at his barren, slack face, and my hand swings round and backhands the bitch with as much as I’ve got. The fucking shriek sings out in the air like I’ve just about killed her. She’s far from dead yet and has fuck-all chance of gaining traction on me in this mood she’s caused.
I stand and loom over her, watching as she rights herself and tries jumping from the floor, hands reaching for her gun. I’ve knocked the fucking thing clear of her grasp before she gets a chance, enough power in the move to throw her sideways after the fact. She scrabbles again and swings back, hands up and ready for a fight. No, that isn’t happening. I’m not playing games now, not here. I stamp forward, watching the way her eyes widen as she sets herself ready, and then grab for her to sling her to the ground again. She hits hard, the skid of her body throwing her up against old steel filing cabinets.
The force of the landing makes her groan and roll, her body trying to get up. I don’t give her a second. I kick into her stomach, my blood riling up at the feel of it, and then grab hold of her hair. Bitch. She’s got a goddamn debt to pay for this shit. My uncle? She dares come in here, her silver, fucking badge up in her ass, and causes this?
Another kick to her ribs and I walk back to Nate, getting him into position so I can carry him. Home. Away from this. No quick fucking death for her. No easy end for this little hero. She’ll feel it for weeks, feel my wrath, my fathers too, no doubt. Even Carter can have his turn. If he can remember how to hurt something.
I crick my neck and walk back to her, picking her hair up again, and line up my fist. One sharp jab should be enough. One fucking feel of what Cane means, what she dared intrude on, and then I can get them both out of here. She groans and tries to roll away, tries to evade. Too fucking late. The punch lands home, primed onto the spot I know works well, and she slumps down, out fucking cold. Shame she’s not dead too, but not yet.
Not fucking yet.
The walk down the stairs to the car with Nate over my shoulder sticks in my mind with every footfall. He’s heavy, lax in my grasp. Still warm, too. I grip him tightly, careful not to bang him into anything, and then lay him gently into the back of the car. His body splays, arms and legs at angles no living being could manage. I retch, unable to deal with the vision, and then I get to work straightening him out and searching for his car keys. I need to cover this, get the vehicles out of here to somewhere safe.
Eventually, I grab a blanket and lay it over him, covering his tall frame. I slam the door, and my own body rests on the outside of it for a minute. Fuck. What the fuck is this? Of all the deals for him to come to, for her to turn up at, this was not the fucking one.
I storm into the building and up the stairs again, pulling my gun on the way. I’ll kill her. Just get it fucking done and then go dump her body in front of my father. No. Not enough. Not enough and too fucking lenient for this crime.
Fucking cops.
She’s still out cold when I get there, blood-soaked clothes reminding me of what she’s done. Bitch. I scour the floor, checking my men and noting a dead Denago, and then hear a wheezed fucking breath coming from somewhere. My eyes scan for it, and I eventually see Emilio half-hidden and propped up on an old cabinet, blood redding up his shoulder. My trigger finger squeezes, ready to finish him off, but all sorts of shit starts infiltrating my thoughts as I look at him. He did this. It was his gun that sent that bullet home. I crouch down, looking into those eyes.
“Stupid fuck,” I mutter. “You think killing a Cane was useful?” He wheezes out another solid breath, fingers clutching his shoulder. “My goddamn uncle?”
“Get on with it, Logan.” His death, he means. Fuck that. Too easy.
