Page 2 of Surrender

But now I know where he is.

I change my course, running down a different row. If I’m right…

I reach the end of the aisle just as he does. He doesn’t have time to react before I’ve tackled him to the ground.

He grunts and bucks against me—not like a wild animal, but with the precision of somebody trained to fight back. Too bad for him that I’m no slouch myself, and I have a good fifty pounds of muscles on him.

He catches my jaw with the palm of his hand, which fucking hurts, but I use that opportunity to grab his wrist and pin it to the floor. Then I jab my gun under his jaw, and he immediately stills.

He’s younger than I expected, with messy strands of red hair around his face.

If I had to guess, I’d say he was in his early twenties. His green eyes are cold and hard, though, at odds with what would have been a babyface otherwise.

“Who sent you?” I growl at him. It’s probably a futile question, but sometimes men like this would rather give up who’s truly responsible rather than taking the heat themselves. It’s not likely I’ll get any useful answers, though.

“Don’t know,” he answers with a sneer. “They really want you dead, though.”

Of course they do. I have enemies, just like everyone else in this line of business. There’s always someone you’ve pissed off, always someone who wants to take your place. Well, fuck that.

I stare at him, cold eyes meeting cold eyes, and I recognize a kindred soul. I wouldn’t betray an employer either, not without extreme pressure.

Well, I’ll just have to make sure he feels it.

Before I can even begin to formulate a plan, though, one of my men screams something unintelligible. With the gun still firmly lodged in place, I look up, just in time to feel the building rumble around us and feel the heat of a blast.

I instinctively get as low as I can—which has my body flush against the gunman’s as the shelves and racks of the warehouse tumble around us.

Fuck.

Judging from the size of the blast and where it came from… if I’d still been near the van, I’d have been caught in the middle of it.

If he’d still been where he was earlier, he would have been caught in the blast too.

“You’re an idiot, huh,” I say to him. “You would have blown yourself up too.”

He scowls up at me, his hair falling into his face. “What? This isn’t me. I don’t do explosives. Did one of your men rig your van to blow?”

And destroy the product? Like hell. Not unless one of them is a traitor, too, which… This isn’t the time or place to worry about that. I need to get out of here and find safety before I put this bastard through the wringer.

I grunt and drag him up, and he uses the opportunity to land a perfectly placed chop to my wrist that has my gun dropping to the floor beneath us. Fuck!

I grab my secondary weapon from its holster, but right as I’m about to aim for his knee, the warehouse rocks with the force of another explosion right in front of us. I scramble back, the wave of heat and ash and dust making it difficult to breathe.

The hitman’s eyes widen, and he stumbles into me. I instinctively lash out against him, and I’m surprised that my hand connects with his chest without him evading the blow. He grunts and collapses to the floor.

Smoke starts rising up around us. Something must have caught fire. I start coughing, and it takes me a moment to realize the would-be hitman isn’t making any noise.

If he’s gone and gotten himself killed—potentially with his own explosives—I will be royally annoyed.

I get down to the ground and grab his shoulder. He moans, which means he’s still alive, but when I roll him onto his stomach, I grimace. His back is cut up bad from the flying debris.

I glance around to assess the situation. The fire appears to be coming from a few rows over. The shelves have toppled in a lot of places, but I think I can clear a path to the warehouse exit.

I pull off my jacket and shirt, then tie my shirt around my face as a makeshift mask. It would be better if it was wet, but it’ll have to do for now. I get to work on moving boxes out of the way, gritting my teeth against the pain in my arm.

It would be easier with another pair of hands.

“Hey, kid,” I say, grabbing him by the hair. “You awake enough to help out, or do you just want to die here?”

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