When he released me, I pushed myself to my feet and bolted. One foot in front of the other, I ran blindly and narrowly escaped the alley, but I knew they were on my tail. I shoved my way through the crowd, less careful now. I had no room for politeness. This was about survival.
I ran and dashed, and ran and dashed. Finally, I ran toward a long gateway which widened into a road, and I was sprinting by the time I got there. Four hundred meters. I could make it. I was fast. I ran track in high school.
Three hundred meters. I could hear the footsteps behind me, giving chase.
There were some people milling around, but they were mostly walking dogs in the opposite direction, because this way was toward the palace really, but the offices and most businesses that line the street were closed because it was fucking Saturday.
Unless you had business in the palace, you wouldn’t go this way. You would go the other way to the main entrance. God, I’d made the worst choice ever. There would be no random passersby going this way.
I glanced around frantically. Maybe I could make it to my flat. It was entirely possible.
Two hundred meters.
The feet behind me were stomping faster, harder, closer.
And then out of the blue, from the right, from somewhere I hadn’t even expected, I was rushed, tackled from the side, and my whole world froze for an instant. For the first time in my life, I understood what ‘hang time’ meant. Those brief seconds between movement and impact, when you really could imagine and feel every moment of your life.
And then I hit the ground, cold stone rattling my bones. Unable to protect myself in a better falling position, my shoulder groaned in agony. And worse, I couldn’t fucking breathe because some idiot was on top of me.
Even though I was injured, I wasn’t down for the count.
I tried to remember everything I’d ever been taught. From wrestling with my dad and my cousins, to all my self-defense classes, the number one rule was never let a man get on top of you. Never. Not once. And so I scooted out from under him and instinctively began the movements I’d learned in jiu-jitsu and Krav Maga, wriggling my body like a shrimp from side to side like I was doing crunches for my obliques. And every time I came into my crunch, I hit him with whatever blow I could manage. Unfortunately, those blows were one-armed. My shoulder hurt too much. I couldn’t even move that arm.
“You bitch.”
I didn’t waste any breath on him, but I thought, What, you can’t be more original?
My own sarcasm gave me the extra oomph I needed when he grabbed for me again. Unlucky for him, I drew my foot back and landed a straight heel kick to his face. Blood splattered everywhere.
I scrambled to my feet once again and tried to distance myself from both my assailants, but I saw there was another man running down the street.
Shit. What the hell?
I was having one hell of a terrible day. And then, after this was over, I was going to have ice cream to clean up.
That is if you survive.
Fuck that. I was going to survive. Today was a really shitty day to die.
The man with the scar was not willing to play this time. He threw a punch, and I only narrowly ducked it as I tried to run past him. I threw an elbow, only to have it blocked. He caught my wrist then spun me around and tried to trap me in a bear hug.
My good arm was locked, so I had to use the bad one. I screamed in agony as I twisted it just so, then I grabbed his dick, squeezed, and turned my wrist.
Through a wheeze, he cursed me. “Fuck you.”
“Not today, you asshole.”
With just enough space between us, I delivered my elbow backward, but it didn’t really do much. Nevertheless, it did free my other arm some. As he created space, I delivered another elbow back toward his face and then turned my body and stuck my thumb in his eye socket. Again, he yowled, releasing me. When I tried to run past him again, he grabbed me with one arm, and then his other arm backhanded me.
As I thought about how I was going to die, of all the ways to go, all I could think was Hey, I got my ass kicked in the fight, but the one move I never thought would down me was a backhand. That was such a bitch move.
Bitch slapped.
Hardy-har.
My subconscious was in one hell of a hilarious mood today.
Still, the pain shattered along my cheek, my jaw, and my head exploded in agony. I was stunned. Too stunned to do anything good and useful.
Until he clamped his hand around my throat and lifted me off the ground.
I kicked wildly, even though I knew that was the wrong move. I was wasting valuable energy. I tried to raise both my arms above my head, but my one arm would not cooperate. All I had to do was raise them up and bring them back down. But I only managed the move with one arm, and it was ineffective. My air supply was going, and the pain and dizziness started to take over. The shades of gray on the edges of my vision were closing in fast. And then my assailant leaned forward. “Truman says hi. You never should have gone after him, bitch.”
I frowned. “Truman?”
Suddenly, my blood ran cold. The case from two years ago. We’d spirited away the wife of a Hollywood exec. The vilest sort of man. Raped his wife repeatedly. Abused her. She’d finally gotten the courage to leave and needed a safe way to do it. When she told her story, we discovered he was an all-around asshole and not just to his wife. Five other women came forward, and he was charged with multiple counts of rape and assault. He’d gone to jail. And fucking Christ, this was his retaliation.
But then, suddenly, I was released. The air that had seemed like a luxury not five seconds earlier was suddenly plentiful again. Something was happening. Noise. I tried to drag my eyes open, but all I saw was the third man. The one I’d worried about that had been meters away when I had engaged with Scarface. He was doing something to Scarface, making him gurgle. All I saw was a series of kicks, punches, blocks, spinning kicks, a brutal fight. And then Scarface went down, slumping onto the cobblestones. Then there were other people there. Several people. Oh God. My head felt like it was going to pop off my neck.
Somewhere in the distance, as the gray came back into my field of vision, wanting to take over, wanting to pull me down so I didn’t have to think about the pain in my head, I could have sworn I heard Breck’s voice. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sparrow? Sparrow, are you okay?”
And even though I was certainly not okay, I felt a whole hell of a lot better knowing that Breck was holding me. But I knew that had to be a dream of my delusional, about-to-die mind because there was no way Breck was going to wrap his arms around me and make this all okay. It didn’t matter how much I wished it.
Chapter 11
Breck
How many frogs until you find the prince?
* * *
“I’d love to know why you keep looking at me like that.”
I barely resisted the urge to snarl at Sparrow. Instead, I took a deep breath and glared. “You’re getting another black eye, and they just had to check to see if you had another concussion. Don’t tell me you’re fine,” I snapped.
It had been a few hours since the attack, and I knew there would be questions and inquiries and everything else that needed to be done in order to see what the fuck had just happened, but all I could do was focus on the newly formed bruises near Sparrow’s eye.