Page 129 of Dark Breaker

I sit down on the comfy office chair and sigh.

I’m worried sick about what the Jackal is going to do to Fabio. I have to rescue him and my brothers somehow. And his brother too, of course. I don’t know how. But I’ll find a way. I owe it to him, for what he did for me earlier: tracking me down to that beach house and risking his life to go up against my crazy ex. He didn’t have to, but he did.

For me.

And I’ll always love him for it even if that love is unrequited. Or at least, even if he believes he’s incapable of returning that love. Because deep down, I know he’s capable, despite what he says.

The guard isn’t paying much attention to me. I mean sure, he occasionally glances through the glass to check on me, but he knows I can’t go anywhere.

Keeping an eye on him to make sure he’s not looking, I begin opening the drawers of the desk beside me, searching for something that might allow me to free myself of these binds.

I find a letter opener. The edges are pretty dull but the tip is sharp. With one hand I hold the opener so that the tip is pressed against the threads of the rope that binds my wrists together. With my other hand, I move the opener back and forth, sawing the tip into the threads, trying to unravel them.

It’s tricky, but I make good progress, and soon I’ve worked quite the hole into the rope.

I apply outward pressure, pulling my wrists apart to further unravel the threads, and soon I’ve freed myself entirely.

I glance at the guard to confirm he’s not watching me, then I search the remaining drawers for anything else that might prove useful. I find a stapler and a pen. I pocket the pen, grab the stapler, then walk behind the door. I press myself against it so that he won’t be able to see me no matter what angle he peers though the window.

I hold the stapler in one hand and the letter opener the other. I have the stapler folded open, ready to dig into whatever skin it comes into contact with. I really hope it causes some damage, because it’s not a staple gun or anything like that. Also, a lot of mobsters have thick skin, literally—they’re accustomed to pain—so whether it will have any effect, I can’t say. All I know is I have to try.

The seconds tick past. My hands are shaking, my heart is pounding, and I’m a nervous wreck.

Come on, dude, hurry up already!

He must have noticed I’m not readily visible by now. He’ll be coming inside to check on me any moment now.

Or not.

The seconds tick past. Then minutes.

I start to relax.

But just when I do I hear the lock click and my heart thuds all over again.

I tense up and slide away from the door so that I won’t be caught behind it. I keep close to the wall.

He steps inside. He’s holding a key in one hand and his gun in the other. He’s staring at the desk—he thinks I’m hiding behind it.

“All right, get out—” he begins.

I step out from my position beside the door and slam the stapler into his neck. I stab the letter opener into his face at the same time and feel it crunch against bone. He grunts in pain and stumbles forward.

I drop the stapler and race out the door while he’s still stunned. I immediately dive into the adjacent office and hide behind the desk. I peer past.

“That bitch,” I hear the goon saying. He stalks in front of my office. He’s holding his cheek with one hand: there’s a big, bloody cut running down his face. He carries his pistol in the other hand. I can also see the staple in his neck oozing blood. Not a pretty sight. He reminds me a little of Frankenstein.

I duck behind the desk and hear him talking to himself. No, not to himself, but over a walkie-talkie attached to his shoulder harness.

“She got out of the office,” the goon says. “Distracted me with a fucking stapler and letter opener. She couldn’t have gone far.”

“Stay where you are,” I hear a voice respond.

I carefully peer past again.

He’s got his back to me. He stays in front of the office for a few seconds, but then wanders toward one of the crate aisles. He approaches the corner of the aisle and then abruptly swings his gun past as if he expected to find me hiding there. Then he walks deeper down said aisle, vanishing from view.

I know he’s going to return when he doesn’t find me, and he might search this office next, along with the adjacent offices. I consider dashing out there to find somewhere else to hide, but it seems like a bad idea, especially if more men are coming. If I leave now, I could be running right into their line of sight.