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My heart skips. His words hang in the air between us. I want to take the end of the rope and keep pulling until I free every single one of the words he wants to say from his mouth.
But I never get the chance.
The suite door swings open.
In one swift movement, Magnum gets to his feet, gun raised.
I turn, lowering myself into the leather, but peeking around the couch to see who walks in.
My stomach sinks as in walks the reason for me even being here. He was so close to the foray that I imagined he would die, but he’s not dead at all. In fact, he’s in better shape than us. He’s not nursing a gun wound or bleeding from his stomach. He certainly wasn’t knocked around in a fight and then dragged through a parking lot to avoid being shot at.
“Magnum.”
Bodies usher in behind him. I get to my feet, my heart hammering in my ears and at the pulse in my wrists. I blink several times, trying to take in the faces as they come in. Some are wounded. Some are being carried by others, but my eyes refuse to focus.
Where are they? Where are they? Theyhaveto be here.
Flashes of the gun fight flick through my head. For the first time, I allow myself to think that people don’t just survive shit like this. There are probably more dead than alive. It wasn’t a game to any of them out there. They were shooting to kill. They didn’t care who.
Their family had been wronged, and they were out for blood.
“Kyla?”
The world stops. I search for the owner of the voice in a sea of distraught faces until I find him.
Him.
And then I fall to my knees, watching the open door for others, but no one comes.