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And with that, he turns toward the door, taking my chance of freedom with him.
My own heart rises in my throat, and I’m one sharp intake of breath from passing out.
This is my last chance. I can’t let him go.
“I’ll do anything,” I sob, squeezing my hands together. “Absolutely anything, if youhelp me get out of here.”
His footsteps stop. Through swollen eyes, I watch as his back muscles contract like the complicated mechanism of a lock. Watch his fists curl and uncurl, and his shoulders roll back, bringing him to a poker-straight stature.
It feels like a lifetime before he turns around again.
There’s a rumble deep in his chest, and he stares at a spot somewhere above my head.
“I’m not a savior. I’m not your knight in shining armor, and I’m certainly not your guardian angel,” he says slowly, his voice strained and low. “I am the Devil, and any favor I do for you comes at a price. So, I will ask you this, do you really want to be in debt to the Devil?”
I’m not even listening because all I can hear is opportunity. I nod so hard my vision goes blurry.
His eyes narrow. “You don’t even know what I want from you.”
“I don’t care,” I gasp. I really fucking don’t. Another decision I don’t file into “good” or “bad” categories. I’ll worry about that when I get out of here, out of this damn penthouse, and away from these monsters. One problem at a time.
His shoulders sag and he runs a hand over his shaved head, muttering something under his breath that doesn’t reach my ears.
“How many?”
“I-I’m sorry?”
With gritted teeth, he grunts, “Besides Klaas and Georg Van der Boor and the two guards outside, how many men are in or around this building?”
Hope rises up my throat and I scramble my fuzzy brain for an answer. “Uh, three. No, four. Two outside the front door, and then there’s two outside the building as well.” He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off with hurried whispers. “The two outside have AK-47s, but the one with the beard keeps his safety on at all times. I know because the day they brought me here he accidentally hit the trigger and narrowly missed spraying bullets into his foot. Klaas Van der Boor screamed at him, then the other guard, the one with the scar, told him to keep the safety catch on at all times. Yes, they were speaking in Afrikaans, and I don’t understand it, but it turns out ‘safety catch’ is the same in every language.” After a pregnant pause, I mutter, “I think, anyway. I’m rambling now. Sorry, I’ll stop.”
His lips tighten but his eyes glitter. He’s amused. Despite the situation, I’ve amused him. They darken quickly again as he scratches the scruff along his jawline, mouth moving while he mutters under his breath.
He tugs his gun from his waistline and positions it behind his back. He pins me with one last lingering stare. Mutters to himself.
“I must be mad.”
Then he takes a deep breath, turns to the Japanese sliding doors, and forces them open with a deafening crash.
I throw my shackled arms over my head at the sound of raining bullets.
Cillian
Georg and Klaas have the same eyes. Lifeless, glassy. They’ll never blink again.
I rub a hand over my face and groan over the sea of dead bodies.
What the fuck did I just do?
I don’t care about the Van der Boors or their men. They were nothing but clients and my bank account won’t miss the paycheck. I have no loyalty to them, but from a logistical point of view, I know I’m in the shit.
No going back now.
Heavy silence swirls the penthouse, interrupted only by the drip, drip, dripping of blood and the girl’s muffled sobs in the room over.
I’ll deal with my weakness later. First things first, we need to get out of here.
I head into the cigar room, avoiding the pools of blood, and search the Van der Boor brothers’ pockets. A key ring with two small keys sits in Georg’s inside jacket pocket, and I slip it into my own. Tugging the burner phone from my back pocket, I stab in the number etched into the inside of my eyelids.
