Page 20 of Protecting His Finch

They’ve heard the gunshots. The screams, too, probably.

It’s only a matter of time before they find us.

The staircase is tight and dark, and we have to climb it blindly. Finley follows in my shadow. It spills out into her room.

“Take only what you need,” I tell her. “We’re leaving. Now.”

She doesn’t argue with me. She doesn’t ask questions. She just grabs a black coat and pulls it on. She takes her notebook and shoves that into one of the overly large pockets.

“Okay,” she says, looking at me expectantly. “What now?”

I take her by the arm. I crack her bedroom door open and listen. There’s some bustling downstairs, which is where we need to be. I exit her room and glance down the staircase.

Three guards, all trying to figure out what’s going on. I watch them talk to each other, and then one looks up.

“Hey, Archer,” he says. “You know what’s going on?”

My heart pounds. I’ve worked with these men for nearly a decade. They trust me implicitly.

“Trouble in the cellar,” I tell them. “Go. Now.”

They listen to me. The three of them quickly move in a line toward the cellar, drawing their guns.

I take Finley’s arm again. “Follow me.”

I lead her down the stairs quickly. We exit through the front door. It’s bitterly cold tonight, but the sharpness of the air feels good against the rush of my adrenaline.

My car sits in the front. Primo parking for their primo bodyguard.

At least, that was what I used to be. I’m nothing but a traitor to the family now.

Fuck them.

The headlights blink as I unlock the car. Finley quickly gets in the passenger side, and I enter the driver’s seat, shoving my key in the ignition.

“Archer,” Finley says urgently.

They’re at the door. Rossi’s guards, pointing at the car.

“Put your seat belt on,” I tell her. Then I shove the car into gear and flatten the accelerator.

The car spits gravel and flies out of the driveway. These roads are dark, twisted, flanked by gnarled trees and snow. I know them like the back of my hand.

At first, we’re followed by three cars. Then two. I watch the headlights bob and blink through the trees behind us.

I take a sharp right and turn off my lights. I maneuver the car off road, between thick, burly trees. Then I kill the engine.

Finley and I wait in the darkness. I can hear her panting softly beside me. But we say nothing as we watch the cars zip past us on the road. One pair of headlights. Two. Engines roaring, and then gone.

I wait until we can’t hear the growl of their engines. I wait until there’s nothing but nighttime crickets, a swath of clear-sky stars above us, and the loudness of Finley’s fear.

Only when I’m certain we’re in the clear do I turn the ignition on again and roll the car back onto the road, stealing out into the night.

We drive for two hours, and then three, in complete silence.

I’m not taking us anywhere in particular. I’ve pointed my nose north out of some old-school, instinctual habit, so that’s where we’re heading.

“You’ve hurt people before,” Finley asks. “Right?”

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