Page 134 of Pucked Around and Found Out

He's still alive, still conscious, staring up at me with his lipless mouth gaping obscenely.

“Don't worry,” I tell him. “You'll bleed out in about two minutes. Faster if you panic.”

I stand and shoot him a wink then leave him there, drowning in his own blood.

“Fuck, I missed this,” Cas says behind me, and when I look back, he's got a gun, taken from one of the dead agents and he's limping forward on his crutch, firing with his free hand.

Each shot is precise. Professional.

Headshots, mostly.

Clean kills.

Boring.

“Where's the fun in that?” I ask.

“Different strokes,” he says with a grin, then puts a bullet between another agent's eyes. “I like efficiency. You like art.”

“Damn right.” It’s easy to fall back into our old ways, I push the negative thoughts aside and choose to think about them later.

Three agents come at us from the left corridor, coordinated, tactical.

I meet them head-on.

The first one's throat opens under my blade. Carotid spray paints the wall. It's the most perfect shade of red.

The second manages to get a shot off—misses, hitting the ceiling—before I'm inside his guard, blade punching through his eye socket into his brain. The sound almost has me groaning.

He drops like a puppet with cut strings.

The third tries to run.

I'm faster.

Grabbing him from behind, my arm around his throat, knife at his face.

“You know what I hate about your cunt-flap of a boss?” I ask, dragging the blade along his cheek, not cutting yet, just pressure. “She thinks she can threaten what's mine. Thinks she can take me off the board.”

I press harder and the blade breaks skin.

“She's wrong. Dead fucking wrong, I’m not a piece on the board, I am the fucking board!”

I carve his lips away while he's still struggling, still trying to scream.

Another set for my collection.

When I drop him, he's convulsing, going into shock.

I walk away without a second glance.

“Xaden!” Andrade appears, blood-spattered, grinning like a madman. “Boss, we need to move to the garage⁠—”

“Where's Toren?” I demand, wiping my blade on a dead agent's uniform.

“We don't know,” he admits, and my good mood evaporates. “She's gone from the house. We think Masen took her⁠—”

Something inside me shifts.