Page 31 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Trips

I hate the idea of tunnels. Of being locked underground, the echo of a brightly-lit concrete rat run covered by thousands of tons of dirt; it makes my skin crawl.

Which is one of the main reasons I’ve never used them, even when the temps drop well below zero.

The skyways downtown? Those make a hell of a lot more sense than scrambling underground like a damn worm.

As much as I hate this, though, it’s the best chance we have.

I wish I knew who’s following us and how well trained they are. The chance of us making it is slim, no matter who it is, though. I know that. And I’m coming to accept it.

Because no matter who’s following us, it doesn’t change the fact that my right hand is fully useless and pounds with every beat of my heart.

What felt before like penance for my stupidity is now just plain stupid.

At least my left hand only has bruised bones, no need for surgery there.

But I’m no southpaw. And Walker, he’s no fighter.

We both know it.

His hands are his money makers, but not in a way that helps us get out of this.

He, at least, needs to get to the rendezvous point. I’m nothing but a liability. Clara needs him, so I’m going to make sure he gets to her.

I’m not the priority.

I’ve been fucked since birth, learning early that hope is nothing but pending disappointment. For a few months, a future fully of my own making seemed possible. It was nice—until it crumbled like wet sand.

I sling the heavy bag of cat crap over my shoulder as Walker pulls into a spot, my personal shoulder bag slung over my other arm. Not a lot of stuff to run with, but I haven’t had a backpack since I learned to drive.

And I always knew I probably wasn’t making it out. So, no real loss. I take a second to jam a wad of cash in Walker’s pocket as he twists to grab his bag. They’ll need it.

Then we’re strolling into the concrete hallway, pretending this is totally normal.

But as soon as the tail careens in, slamming to a stop in a spot as close to the door as possible, I know we’re fucked. “Go, they know we’re running!” I shout.

Walker takes off, winding through the tunnel with confidence, and I rush to keep up. But just as we’re not ready to win a fight, neither of us are runners either.

As I twist to look, I see the worst option leaping from the nondescript SUV, phone in hand—Falk.

Former special ops and my father’s best security guy.

Someone who rarely leaves my father’s side.

Shit. If my father re-tasked him, sending him out to watch our house?

We were fucked before we even walked out the back door.

The only thing that might be in our favor is that Falk hates my father nearly as much as I do. I’ve never figured out what my father has on him, but it must be bad. Because it doesn’t take someone like Clara to see his hatred. Even Trevor jokes about it.

I follow Walker, my hand excruciating as my heart rate climbs, feeling like it’s bouncing even though I’ve got it braced against my chest. Sweat covers me under my coat, both from running in a full winter getup as well as from the pain.

But the muted beat of Falk behind me tells me that the man is going to outrun us. And we’re panting too loudly to take a surprise turn and disappear. Fuck.

“Walker, go ahead, I’ll hold him off,” I say, not knowing what else to do, halting around another winding turn. I’m never finding my way out of this rat run, even if I get a miracle and beat Falk.

Walker, though, won’t let me stop, grabbing my elbow and tugging me behind him, his grip surprisingly strong. “No fucking way, man.”

“It’s the only way. Get back to her.” I shake him off, tossing the bags on the floor right where Falk will come around the corner, hoping they’ll trip him and give me a chance to get off at least a few hits.

Only Walker’s tossing down his bag too, and it’s all I can do not to kick him. “Two on one,” he says.

And then Falk is there, hopping over the first bag, stumbling slightly over the second, but recovering his stride before he hits the third, blocking my best shot like he saw it coming before he even made it around the turn.

The fight begins in earnest, and I’m brutally reminded that I was only ever trained as an instrument of torture. Falk blocks all my swings, his training is so obviously superior that adrenaline fueled terror is my only advantage. Shit. This was my only plan.

When by some trick of fate, I land a punch, he grunts, his hazel eyes dark, but that’s it. One hit. After that, no matter how many times I swing with my left and block with my right forearm, he counters, my handicap so damn predictable that my best effort might as well be a warm-up for the man.

Walker harries him from behind like some fucking terrier, kicking at the backs of his knees, but even then, there’s a reason Falk did what he did. He’s fucking fast. It’s all I can do to stay on my feet, any advantage of size lost the second he grounds me. I never had a reason to learn to grapple.

I scrabble against the concrete, trying to get a hold on the man, Walker dodging in to help.

And fucking Falk kicks out at him, the force of his solid strike slamming Walker into the wall.

Walker’s head cracks against the concrete, the sound like a giant egg dropped on the floor, and my goddamn heart dives into my goddamn stomach.

There’s no way Walker knows how to take a hit, let alone one that hard.

Fuck, even Clara has more experience taking hits than he does.

My eyes water, barely able to focus on the losing fight I’m in, as Walker slides down the wall and doesn’t get back up.

Impotent rage boils, and I throw myself at Falk, trying to pin him, to slam him against the wall, the floor, whatever I can do, but still, he dodges, dancing back, his face grim.

“Just give it up, kid,” he grunts as he blocks another of my damn swings on the left.

I aim for the side of his head with my elbow, like I’ve seen RJ do, but it’s not a move I’ve done before, and he catches it and dances to the side. “Would you?” I pant.

He doesn’t respond, because he knows he’d be fighting to get away if he could. But for a second, his face slumps, and right then, I jam my knee up. He blocks it with this thigh, but as he steps back, his ankle gets caught in my shoulder bag.

He stumbles as I try to spin his misstep to my advantage, but all I manage is a glancing blow to his jaw. And I know that’s it.

I’m exhausted. My right hand is useless. Walker’s down for the count, and Falk is more machine than man. That was my one chance. And it hardly mattered.

Sure enough, Falk does some jujitsu crap, and I’m pinned against the wall, the cool concrete against my cheek almost welcome.

“Stop. Just stop,” he grunts against my back as I flail, trying to offset him with my bulk as he kicks out my legs, trying to keep me off balance, my legs too wide to step out of whatever hold this shit is.

Instead, I go for the last thing I can think of, going slack in his grasp, using my melting mass to unsettle him.

But he’s even ready for that move stepping back while keeping a grip on my wrists, the one on my right searing like lightning as it gets tugged and jostled as I melt to the floor, trying to roll out of his control.

There’s a jangle and a thunk behind me, and my arms are loose enough to yank free.

I scramble to my feet, spinning to find a bloody Walker with the duffel bag swinging in his grip, Falk on the floor, blood on his temple matching a splatter on the concrete wall about head height.

Walker blinks at me, his eyes unfocused and rocking like he’s on a fucking boat. “What the hell is in this bag?”

Not wanting to waste a minute, I yank my bag out from under Falk, take the duffel from Walker’s wavering grip, and add his bag to my collection as well.

Then I shove him toward the direction we’d been going, hoping he’s not so concussed that he can’t find the way out of this fucking underground trap. “Cat litter and food.”

“You’re telling me I just took out a guy with something cats shit in?” An unhinged laugh falls from him as he stumbles forward, his hand against the wall keeping him upright.

I risk a glance at my watch, my vision bleary from the hits I took. If Walker can still find his way out of a tin can, let alone this underground rat race, we might make it in time. Might.

We’ve got to try. I didn’t think I’d make it this far, but I’m not giving up yet. Even if I feel like I should.