Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Adrenaline kicked in as she sprinted toward him and shot again, directly through his heart.
His arm fell to the floor with the slump of his body, his eyes fixed, glassy and frozen, at the ceiling.
This was far from over. Even with a silencer, those three shots had made noise. If the reverberation had reached the main floor, she didn’t have much time.
She raced toward the chamber where Tate and Van waited and slammed to a stop mid-stride.
Keys!
Spinning back to the dead guard, she grabbed his 9mm and unhooked the keyring from his belt.
Then she ran, stretching unused muscles in her desperation to get to Tate. At the door to the chamber, she released the bolt and rushed into the room.
The overpowering scent of blood hit her in the face, causing her to stumble. Van sat against the wall, arms shackled to the beam. Tate lay on his stomach beside him, free of restraints because…
Oh God, his back was a gruesome tapestry of tattered flesh and gory illustrations too shocking to focus on. With his cheek against the concrete and his wounded arm lying like a dead thing beside him, he didn’t move, didn’t react.
Waves of heartbreak crashed through her, wrenching a whimper from her throat.
His eyes were open but glazed over, expressionless, utterly catatonic.
With panting breaths, she forced her feet to keep moving, skidded to her knees beside Van, and set the guns on the floor.
“We have to hurry.” She fumbled with the key in the locks, losing precious seconds before the chains fell loose.
“Badell?” Van pulled his arms free and grabbed one of the guns.
“Dead. In his room. No one knows. Yet.” From her pocket, she handed him Armando’s phone. “I’ll get us out of the compound, but we need help leaving the city. This won’t be a stealthy getaway.”
“Matias should be close, but I don’t know how to contact him.” Van inched toward Tate and stroked a hand over his unmoving head. “Tate? I need Matias’ number.”
Tate’s lashes twitched, followed by a sluggish blink. The muscles in his jaw bounced, like he was trying to respond and couldn’t.
Her heart shattered, and it took every ounce of willpower she had left to keep her emotions in check.
“He’s been unresponsive since you left.” Van stood, stepping out of her way.
“Tate.” She stretched out on the floor beside him and put her face in his. “We’re getting out of here, but we need Matias’ number.”
His eyes tried to track her voice, focusing and clouding over. Then his lips moved, whispering the digits slowly and painfully in a shredded voice.
As Van made the call, she moved down Tate’s legs. His jeans gathered just beneath his butt, as if the task of righting them had been interrupted. She carefully dragged his pants into place, focusing on her hands rather than the horror painting his back.
“It’s Van Quiso,” Van said into the phone. “We’re in trouble.”
Tate groaned weakly as she slid a hand beneath his hips, tucked him inside the boxer briefs, and zipped the fly as much as she could manage.
Van quietly and efficiently outlined the situation to Matias. A few seconds later, he turned the ringer off the phone, pocketed it, and rested those sharp silver eyes on her.
“He’s twenty minutes outside of the neighborhood.” He crouched at Tate’s side. “We need to head north, and he’ll meet us at—”
“M-mmeh…” Tate inched his hand toward her, dragging his injured arm along the floor and hissing, “Medsss…you…”
“I got the medicine.” She caught his hand in hers and found his swollen blue eyes, blinking back tears. “I’m good, Tate.”
“Extra?” he slurred. “More mehhs…sinnn?”
Extra medicine?
Despite her efforts, her strung-out misery flowed down her cheeks in hot streaks. She couldn’t imagine the amount of pain he was in, yet his concern was entirely focused on her.
She knelt over him and put her mouth against his. “The syringes are locked up, but it’s okay. Matias will find me a good doctor.” She kissed his cracked lips, lingering, savoring the connection. “I have twenty-four hours. Plenty of time.” Not near enough time. But she wouldn’t dwell on that. “Van’s going to carry you. We need to go.”
Tate closed his eyes, his expression contorted in pain. When he refocused on her again, he looked fiercely determined and brutally handsome.
Flattening the hand of his good arm against the floor, he tried to push up. Van was there, lifting and adjusting to position Tate’s body in a fireman’s carry. Though Tate didn’t make a sound, his agony was palpable in the tenseness of his muscles and the creases on his bruised face.
She lost her breath through the grueling process of dragging him to his feet. His back was one massive, open, chewed-up wound. His ribs were broken, and the hole near his elbow slicked his forearm and hand in fresh blood. Moving him without causing extreme pain was impossible.