Page 43 of Dead Devil's Playground
"Just some kids looking for a party," the first man replies, his tone dismissive. "I'm handling it."
The second man steps closer, studying us with narrowed eyes. "How'd they get past security?"
A chill runs down my spine. That's a very good question—one that suggests they know exactly what security measures should have stopped us. Which means they know our protocols.
"In position," Hudson's voice confirms in my ear. "On your signal."
"Wait, wait," I slur, holding up my hands in what I hope looks like drunken panic. "We'll just go, okay? No harm, no—"
The cold press of metal against my forehead stops my words instantly. The second man has moved faster than I anticipated, his gun now digging into my skin. His eyes—the only part of his face visible through the balaclava—are cold, calculating.
"Too late for that," he says, voice muffled by the mask. "Grab them both."
Strong hands seize my arms from behind—a third man I didn't see approaching. I let my body go slack, playing up the terrified party girl while my mind races through escape scenarios. Oliver struggles briefly beside me before another masked figure subdues him.
They drag us forward, my boots scraping against concrete as I pretend to stumble. The gun never leaves my forehead, the pressure constant and threatening. I count our captors—four handling us directly, at least eight more by the containers and boats. Twelve against four of us, plus Oliver. Not great odds, but we've faced worse.
As we're pushed toward the dock, I realize this might actually work in our favor. Their leader must be waiting on one of those boats. If we can get close enough, we might identify whoever's behind all this.
"Please," I whimper, making my voice break. "We didn't see anything. We won't tell anyone."
"Shut up," growls the man behind me, fingers digging painfully into my bicep.
Through my earpiece, I hear Hudson's voice, tight with controlled fury: "We're moving in. Wait for my signal."
The wooden planks of the dock creak beneath our feet as they march us forward. Water laps gently against the pilings below, the sound almost peaceful compared to the hammering of my heart. The boats—sleek, expensive speedboats that could disappear quickly into the night—wait at the end of the pier, their engines idling.
I stumble deliberately, using the moment to assess my weapons. The knife at my thigh is closest, but the one at my back would be easier to reach with my arms restrained. I just need the right moment.
"Oliver," I whisper, making it sound like a frightened plea rather than a command. "Stay down when it happens."
His eyes flick to mine, wide but understanding. He gives me the barest of nods.
We're halfway down the dock now. The boats bob gently on the water, their sleek hulls gleaming in the moonlight. Through my earpiece, I can hear the soft sounds of movement as the twins and Hudson close in.
"Now," Hudson's voice commands.
I drop my weight suddenly, throwing the man holding me off-balance. As he stumbles, I twist, driving my elbow into his solar plexus. He doubles over with a grunt, and I use the momentum to pull the knife from my back.
Gunfire erupts around us as Hudson's team engages the men by the containers. The man with the gun whirls toward the sound, his weapon no longer pressed against my forehead.
"Oliver, hide!" I shout, slashing at the hand of another guard who reaches for me. Blood sprays across the wooden planks as my blade finds flesh.
The night explodes into chaos. I catch glimpses of the twins moving like shadows between the containers, their movements fluid and deadly. Hudson's team advances from multiple directions, boxing in the thieves.
I spin, blade flashing, as another masked man charges me. He's fast, but I'm faster, ducking under his wild swing and driving my knife into the soft spot beneath his ribs. He collapses with a wet gurgle.
"Oliver, stay down!" I yell again when I spot him crouched behind a stack of ropes, his eyes wide with something that looks almost like exhilaration.
A bullet whizzes past my ear, too close for comfort. I drop and roll, coming up with my second knife in hand. Three men are retreating toward the boats, firing wildly to cover their escape. I recognize the opportunity—if they get away, we lose our chance to find out who's behind this.
I sprint after them, dodging between bullets, aware that I'm exposing myself but unwilling to let them escape. One of the men turns, taking aim directly at me. Time seems to slow as I register the barrel pointed at my chest, too far to reach him before he pulls the trigger.
Then something—someone—barrels into me from the side, knocking me off my feet. Oliver. He's tackled me out of the bullet's path, his body covering mine as we hit the dock hard.
"Stay down!" I hiss, trying to push him off me, but he's already scrambling to his feet.
"They're getting away!" he shouts, and before I can stop him, he's running toward the men at the boat.
