Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“How much did you get for it?” I ask, because I’m pretty sure he gave me only a fraction of that amount.
He at least looks shame-faced when he meets my gaze.
“Go back,” Jet says pointing to the screen.
The man scrolls back and I see why Jet had him stop it. There’s a split second when the man tilts his head and the camera captures a corner of his face, the scruffy black beard.
“When men like that don’t want to be seen, they are quite good at it,” the man says.
“Describe him for us,” Jet says.
“Shall I draw you a picture then?” the man asks sarcastically, and before Jet can respond, before even a split second passes, I hear a sound that although I can’t name, sends an icy chill through me.
I don’t know if I imagine the shifting of air by my temple. It all happens so fast.
The old man freezes and I stand stupefied and watch as a hole appears in the very center of his forehead. He looks as surprised as I am confused. But when a trail of dark red slides down to the bridge of his nose, all the pieces click into place and the man’s body drops to the floor.
Jet’s arm is around me instantly, hand over my head, body at my back.
“Down!” he calls out, his body landing heavy on me.
All goes quiet apart from my panicked breathing, the shop black around us. Jet shifts, and I feel the metal of his gun.
“You okay?” he whispers.
I nod because I can’t form words.
Glass shatters too near us.
I scream, shards cutting my hands as I try to cover my head. It’s the camera. The shooter cut out the camera so there will be no recording.
“Stay down!” Jet calls out, firing his weapon. He must hit the overhead light because the office is plunged into darkness and Jet has the advantage with the light of the streetlamp illuminating the shop itself just enough for us to make out the shooter.
The shooter and Jet exchange bullets. A vase crashes to the floor behind me. I hear the cry of the other man. He’s at least injured and it buys us enough time for Jet to half lift me and move me into a small space between two bookcases. He looks at me, something flashing in his eyes. He swipes his thumb over my cheek, and it comes away red.
“Glass. Just glass,” I tell him.
“Stay. Don’t move a muscle!” he orders. Just then, the streetlamp goes out and the little bit of light it provided is gone. The bell over the door dings signaling someone entering.
There are two of them now. Two against one because I don’t have any weapon.
Jet strips his off his long coat and leaps behind the opposite counter. Shots follow him. I scream because I know what he’s doing. He’s getting me out of the line of fire by making a target out of himself.
As my eyes adjust, I see Jet pick up some sort of ball and hurl it across the shop, smashing an ornate lamp in the far corner before raising his weapon to shoot the gun hand of the one still standing.
The one on the floor takes aim. I don’t know if Jet sees.
“Watch out!” I call out as the man’s gun fires almost simultaneously to Jet’s. His bullet misses but Jet’s doesn’t.
The Devil never misses his mark. I know this about him.
Jet approaches the other man who puts his uninjured hand up, his other arm hanging limply, bleeding from Jet’s bullet.
“Unfair fight,” he grunts out.
“Agree,” Jet says, tossing his weapon aside. The instant he does the other man grins, pulls a switchblade out of his back pocket.
If I can get to the gun, I can kill him. If I can just get to Jet’s gun.
The man lunges, Jet jumps left, the man comes at him again, Jet whirls. The man’s attention is on Jet, his back to me. I get to my feet, keep crouched, and move.
It’s just the distraction Jet doesn’t need because when he sees me, he takes his eyes off his opponent for an instant. A fucking millisecond. But that’s all the attacker needs to lunge, blade aimed at Jet’s stomach.
I scream.
Jet grunts.
The two come together, Jet holding him close, hand closed over the man’s bullet wound, squeezing, the other gripping the wrist of his knife-hand.
“Jet!” I’m on my feet as I hear another grunt. Jet’s dark eyes find mine, sweat glistening on his forehead, hair flopping down into his eyes.
I go for his gun, my hands shaking. I take aim.
Before I have to shoot, Jet shoves the man backward. The man stumbles, the knife still in his hand. That knife buried in his own gut. And I watch, stunned, as he drops to the floor, looking at his own wound as if he can’t believe it. Looking up at Jet as if this can’t be happening.