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Unlocking the bathroom door, I stepped out, holding my breath. I heard nothing. That silence was making me itch.
Lunging for my boots, I yanked the knife from its sheath and gripped it so tightly that my knuckles turned white. Bringing a knife to a gunfight wasn’t a smart move by any stretch of the imagination, but it was better than being empty handed.
Bracing myself, I emerged into the hall. When I reached the front door, I inhaled to steady myself.
What if my brother was waiting for me? The idea of coming face to face with him made my stomach twist with dread.
Then a second thought crossed my mind—much worse than the first.
What if Gideon was lying out there, bleeding, or dead?
With my heart in my throat, I opened the door. A quick scan of the street showed no signs of anyone. Empty. Unnervingly quiet. The street light on the corner cast a faint yellowish glow in the dark.
Finally, footsteps. To my left.
I tightened my grip on my knife and turned toward the sound.
“Didn’t I say to wait inside?”
Gideon came striding out of the shadows, still bloodied, but alive. I couldn’t see any further injuries beside the bullet wound in his shoulder. Relief rushed through me and my knees nearly threatened to buckle from the force of it.
“If you were hoping for an obedient little waif to hang on your every word and do as she’s told, you picked the wrong girl,” I replied, fighting the slight tremble in my voice.
“And what brilliant plan did you have in mind for using that pig-sticker?”
“I would have thought of something,” I protested.
Gideon grunted in disagreement. He gestured with his gun toward the house.
“Back inside. Let’s go.”
I glanced past his shoulder. Gideon moved to block my line of sight.
“They’re gone. For now. But I don’t expect that to last long. Did you call anyone?”
I nodded.
“Kingpin said he was on his way.”
“Good,” Gideon said.
Then his eyes slipped closed and he swayed. It suddenly dawned on me how pale he was. The tightness around his eyes and the clipped, quiet tone of his voice hinted at pain he wouldn’t breathe a word of complaint about. Hesitantly, I reached out and took his arm, curling my fingers around his bicep. I wasn’t used to offering comfort like this, and I felt stilted, awkward, like a newborn foal trying to stand on gawky legs.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” I said. “You should sit.”
Gideon glanced down at me.
“I’m not in the habit of taking orders from anyone other than my superiors, sweetheart. Club rules.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not a Blackjack,” I countered. “Now move it, grandpa.”
He huffed a dry laugh.
“Told you not to call me that.”
“Yeah, well, I told you I don’t behave. The message doesn’t seem to be getting through your thick skull though.”
I led Gideon inside, bypassing the couch. He was a mess. Didn’t need blood stains to ruin his furniture. Guiding him into the kitchen, I coaxed him towards a chair. Gideon gritted his teeth as he sat, but he rested his Glock on his thigh. The fact that he wasn’t letting it go suggested he expected more trouble at any moment.
