Page 64 of Shai

expression on his face saying something wasn’t right. He took a breath in, but it rasped in his chest, a sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead as his face turned red. “I don’t feel right.”

Harris was already at his side, the rest of the men starting to abandon

their meals too, preferring to investigate what was going on. I edged away. As much as I would have liked nothing more than to stand and watch the bastard die, my best chance of getting away was while all the attention was focused on McIntyre, and therefore not on me.

Keeping my eyes locked on the scene unfolding in front of me, I

climbed to my feet and backed away. McIntyre had gone a very peculiar color, his hand clasped to his neck as if he was struggling to breathe. He attempted to speak, nothing but a squawk coming out. His men didn’t seem to know what to do, their faces a picture of confusion, one of them even going so far as to whack McIntyre on the back in case he was choking. There was a loud crash, both McIntyre and his throne toppling to the ground. Someone—Harris maybe—shouted, “Fuck! He’s stopped breathing.”

I didn’t wait for any more confirmation. He was dead. And it was only a

matter of time before they linked my uncharacteristic submission and McIntyre’s sudden and untimely death less than five minutes later.

I turned and ran.

Elijah

MY FOOTSTEPS SOUNDED UNNATURALLY loud in the corridor as I ran, my sore body protesting at what I was forcing it to do. I needed Void. I clamped down on the thought. I had far more important things to worry about than a need to shoot up. I’d worry about where I was going to get my fix once I’d found a way out. Because if I didn’t manage that, I wouldn’t need to worry about Void ever again.

I headed for the exit at the far left of McIntyre’s compound, previous experience having taught me that it tended to be less heavily guarded, with only two men usually stationed there. Only two men! I might have laughed if it wouldn’t have slowed me down. At least the corridors behind me were silent, with no sign of anyone coming after me yet.

They were probably still clustered around McIntyre. Perhaps they were trying to resuscitate him. Good luck with that. Given how quickly he’d gone from talking to lying still on the ground, there was definitely no bringing him back from the brink.

If I was about to die, I could at least take that image to the grave with me. McIntyre wouldn’t be asking anyone to kneel for him ever again. He wouldn’t be asking for anything. I’d silenced him forever.

Two men stood at the end of the corridor as I rounded the corner, both armed. I didn’t slow, didn’t stop, just kept barreling forward, the distance between us growing less with every second. The closest man to me went through a number of stages in that time. First came confusion, as if he couldn’t quite believe that what he was seeing was real, and he hadn’t fallen asleep at his post. Then came amusement—the sight of someone running full pelt at him in such a broken-down state apparently the sort of thing that tickled his funny bone.

Lastly, when I was less than a couple of feet away—came realization.

He lifted his gun, the barrel pointed straight at me, his finger moving to the trigger. But I was already there with the razorblade clutched between my fingers. I slashed out wildly, expecting to feel a bullet rip into my chest at any moment. Once. Twice. Three times. I couldn’t have said which attempt had been successful, only that a gaping slit opened up in his neck, the gun dropping to the floor as he wrapped his hands around his neck in a futile effort to staunch the flow of blood.

I didn’t wait for him to die, swinging around and launching myself at

the other man. He fell backwards under my weight, his gun trapped between the two of us. His fingers were on it, though. If his grip was sure enough to squeeze off a shot, it would go into my chest. I let go of the razorblade, needing both hands to go for the gun, the two of us rolling over and over as we grappled for it, my opponent determined to angle it so that he could send a bullet into my chest, while I was equally determined that he would do no such thing. I hadn’t come this far only to fall at the last hurdle.

I had a grip on the gun now, my fingers slippery with blood. My blood,

or the blood of the man whose throat I’d just cut? Who the fuck knew? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t making my task any easier. And the man was stronger than me. It reminded me of my fights with Shai, when there’d only ever been one possible outcome. If there was one thing I’d learned from him, it was that the longer it went on, the more likely I was to be overpowered. And then it would be goodnight, Elijah. It wasn’t like I had time to waste either. The rest of the men would come. They might even be on their way already.

I fought like I’d never fought before, something wild taking over my

body and instilling it with a kill or be killed mentality. I wasn’t human anymore. I was whatever would get the job done, but even so I could feel my energy start to drain away, adrenaline rapidly giving way to lactic acid.

My body had been through too much to hold up to such an onslaught for

long. I saw the moment when he realized it too, a smile appearing on his lips as he managed to twist the gun so that it pressed against my chest.

One twitch of his finger and that would be it. I wouldn’t survive a point-blank shot to the chest. Time stood still. “You’re a survivor, Elijah.” I lifted my head, driving it down with as much force as I could muster, the headbutt catching my opponent square in the forehead. It probably hurt me more than it hurt him, but it did its job, loosening his fingers enough for me to be able to wrench the gun from his grasp. I turned it around and pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession, his body jerking as each bullet found its target.

I wasted no time in scrambling over to the door and wrenching at the handle.

Locked. Fuck! Of course it was. Why guard a door and leave it unlocked? I scurried back to the man I’d just shot. He was still breathing. However, his protest was distinctly lackluster as I rifled through his pockets, my hands shaking so much that it was almost an impossible task. Nothing.

Turning my attention back to the first man, I fought the urge to be sick as I took in the pale and waxy skin of a dead man, his unseeing gaze fixed on the ceiling, a puddle of blood surrounding him. A sound. Footsteps. They were coming. The blood was unavoidable and disturbingly warm as I knelt next to him, carrying out the same search as I had on the other guard. Trouser pockets. Nothing. The footsteps were getting louder.

I could hear voices now as well—raised voices. Jacket pockets. Something metal. A bunch of keys. I pulled them out and hurried back to the door. There were eight keys on the key ring. How much time did I have? I swore as the first three keys didn’t fit, trying to stay calm enough that I didn’t make the mistake of trying the same key twice. One of them had to fit. I’d tried three. There were only five left.

Dashing my sleeve over my face to wipe the sweat from my eyes, I tried the next key. Same result. Four down. Four to go. Key six turned in the lock, the door swinging open. I stumbled out into the cold night air, hardly daring to believe that I’d gotten this far. I wasn’t out of the woods yet by any stretch of the imagination. There were still obstacles to overcome. Not least of which was McIntyre’s sniper on the roof.