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“How much do you think we can get for her if we send pieces of her to dear old daddy, man? More than with Mount?” The smaller one pulls out another cancer stick and lights up using the fading cherry on the old cigarette.
“More than what the contract offers, for sure.”
Sharkskin stubs out his cigarette underfoot and shifts me over his shoulder. His aura pulsates with choking energy feeding into the night straight from Hell.
Both men talk like I’m a piece of meat to be butchered up and sold to the highest bidder.
Please, God. Help me. I don’t think I can fight the two of them. My heart thumps against my ribs. My teeth clench and my lips curl into a snarl. I slip my leg into a position that lines me up with his ribs and I nail him hard.
He grunts, pauses but doesn’t let me fall.
“You’re going to pay for that, bitch!”
I do it again and this time I drive my knee into his sternum, earning me a quick trip to the hard, cold pavement. I roll, shuffle to my feet and make a break for the far side of the alleyway.
Sharkskin lunges for me, grabbing my puffy jacket instead of me. I think I’m home free, but he’s fast and catches me by the hair. In the next second I'm falling. He fists my hair and starts dragging me toward the trunk. His friend grabs for my feet but I land the spike in his face. He pierces his cheek, and he wails with pain.
The cock of a hammer hits my ears.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Muzzle flashes go off and the flare of deadly light is nothing compared to the crack of a bullet firing off.
I roll and shove to my feet, checking for bullet holes on the way up.
No blood and I’m not falling over in pain.
“Oh my God! What the fuck kind of nightmare is this?” Every muscle in my body wants to bolt for the main drag where there are more people, but the fear gripping me refuses to let me move. I’m frozen in place and it has nothing to do with the cold Chicago night.
Two bodies drop in front of me. One second they have my murder written on their to-do list and the next they are meeting the devil for a face to face.
All the malice crunching their expressions into sneers releases. It’s eerie how they look as if they’ve simply fallen asleep. Except for the crimson of their life force pooling around their torsos.
Sweat gathers at the nape of my neck and across my palms despite the snow.
I look up to see three men walking up the alley, guns smoking.
Since I have the shittiest luck there is, instead of two, I now have three runners stalking toward me. It seems fate wants to put me in a maze and make me work to save my life. If that isn’t a Christmas story in the making, I don't know what is. Fifteen minutes ago I wanted death and now here I am hoping I get another chance at seeing my father and apologizing for the grief I put him through.
They get as close as the dumpster when my brain clicks back on. I rush toward the opposite end of the alley, slip on ice and barely keep from falling when one of them calls after me.
“Bailey D’Angelo.”
The husk of a deep voice reaches out to me and pulls me to an abrupt stop. It curls around my senses and forces me to pay attention to every detail. Like the fact I recognize that voice.
The kind of chills that rushes over me now consists of two parts fear and one part lust. How messed up is that?
I look over my shoulder, knocking my hair out of my face. “Are you asking or telling?” All I want to do is get out of this death trap. But my stupid choice of footwear is going to do me in. Running isn’t an option.
I grab at my heels, trying to break the strap holding them in place. Frozen fingers and copious amounts of adrenaline jacking my bloodstream does not make this easy.
There’s a thud of multiple footsteps forcing me to give up on trying to pull my shoes off.
“Telling,” comes the voice again and this time he gets one hundred percent of my attention.
I do an one-eighty and look the killers in the eye to find my unfailing memory has once again not failed me.
“Darius Denatti.”
