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Someone grunts, and Nate moans, low and agonized.
“Bring him in,” someone else says, and I recognize Nate’s dad’s voice.
Enough, goddammit. I’ve heard enough. Jerking my arm free of West’s hold, I start up the stairs again—only he’s ahead of me already, racing up.
He bowls into them without a word, and man, hats off, Weston. I’d half-expected him to yell at them first, tip them off. But he went in like a pro, and anyway, they were too caught up in their little spiel to notice.
They stumble back when West charges them, faces shocked. He knocks one of them into the wall and turns to pull the one who’d been speaking last away from Nate.
Too many ways this could go. The guy still holding Nate may have a knife. Nate’s dad is at the door, scowling. He may have a gun.
Would he risk his son’s life?
Stupid question.
And West did well to play the surprise attack card. Without slowing down, I grab the guy now trying to pull something from his pocket, and chop at his wrist, then shove him back, watching dispassionately as he crashes back to the floor.
West grunts when one of the men he’s struggling to keep back kicks at him. West is strong and has studied some techniques from the looks of it, but he isn’t used to a real fight. He hasn’t been trained by a professional, seasoned underground ring fighter, trained in dirty fighting, like me.
Still, we’re good. These guys seemed huge a year ago when I’d first seen them, but I’ve gained both height and muscle since then. Right now they seem so fucking small it makes me wanna laugh.
I step on the guy on the ground when he tries to get up, and he cries out. Nate’s dad is definitely going for a gun, and I sprint at him, shoving Nate and the guy holding him out of the way. Nate’s dad pulls out the gun, and I kick at his hand, sending the gun flying through the air. It crashes to the floor, and he stumbles backward, face twisted in shock.
Turning back to Nate, I quickly take stock. There’s blood on Nate’s T-shirt, on his white face, but he’s watching me. That’s good.
What isn’t so good is that his pants are undone, hanging half-around his hips.
My stomach turns.
“Let him go,” I tell the guy, my teeth gritting, on the off-chance he will, but he tightens his arms around Nate who gasps, face going white.
Rib injury.
I hope it’s just that.
“Kash! Shit.” West is losing control of the guys he’s been grappling with, and I kick back at one of them, then turn and grab his arm, pulling him off balance as I deliver a jab into his ribcage.
I shove the guy to join the other on the floor, stomp on his hand for good measure, his screech echoing in the stairwell. I hope the old lady from downstairs is wise enough to stay inside her apartment and not come out to see what all the noise is.
Or call the police.
Shit.
I leave the last guy to West, spare a glance at the apartment door where Nate’s dad is getting back on his feet—and where the fuck is the gun now?—before returning my attention to Nate.
Knife. Yeah, I knew it. The guy has a knife. What is the dumbass trying to get out of this? The guy’s eyes are wide, his pupils dilated. That’s not just adrenaline. I wonder what drugs they’re all taking to get so jacked-up.
Though men don’t need much to get all excited over a game, and the more violent and disturbing, the better…
“Didn’t I say to let him go?” I growl. The knife is pressing into the side of Nate’s neck, drops of blood rolling down, dying Nate’s white T-shirt crimson. “Asshole.”
Knives are tricky. Can’t fuck around, give the motherfucker time to decide ending Nate’s life is a good idea. His hand with the knife is shaking.
Eyes. Somehow I gotta go for the eyes, then throat.
After I move that knife away from Nate.
Need to throw something at him, get him off-balance. I reach back into my pocket. Only thing I got is my lighter.
