Page 10 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Dimitri

No good will come of this, only more problems.

If he does not let her go, I will kill him. And maybe if he does.

Based on what I heard, I expect to see her on her knees when I come around the corner of the maze, and the thought makes me see red.

The relief is acute, but brief, when instead I find her upright, sandwiched between Kyle and the thick bushes, one of his hands pressed tightly over her mouth and the other holding a gun at her temple.

I step in without thinking, growl an order without considering any consequences—my only thoughts are wordless ones of sharp urgency and fury.

“Let her go!”

With a start, he swings around. He points the gun at me before I see his face, and the threat of being shot is all it takes for me to bring my arm up to let my knife fly.

Too late, I see the slicked-back hair. Too late, I realize that this is the man who was talking to Felix at the bar.

At the very last second, I try to adjust the trajectory of my throw from one that will kill to one that will incapacitate.

I need to question him—to know what business Felix had here tonight.

With a fleshy pop , my knife lodges in the lower portion of his stomach, somewhere halfway between the center of his chest, where I first aimed, and his thigh, the target I tried adjusting to .

He makes a choked noise and stares down at the knife in disbelief. Eyes wide with shock and fury, he points the gun at me again. I duck back behind the hedge for cover, but not before a shot goes off. It is dark, and his aim is poor, but a white-hot, searing pain lances me in my side.

Fuck! He just shot me!

Fuck! A gun just went off at a wedding!

He fires again and again in my general direction until all that remains is the empty click of a gun out of bullets. I emerge, ready to face off, but he is already disappearing behind another hedgerow. Those final shots were a distraction to cover his own escape.

Tonight was a bad night. So many mistakes.

But none of that feels very important at this exact moment.

As Nicole scrambles to her feet, I go to her and scan her for injuries with a kind of indescribable mania I have never before felt.

The beat of my own heart is so loud in my ears that it blocks all other sound, calming only when I verify that the spray of blood across her dress likely belonged to Kyle. There is no damage to her.

Instructions to retrace her steps out of here are ready on my tongue, only to wither and die at the sound of a series of unmistakable bangs. We both freeze.

Gunshots. Two, then three in answer.

Unless he had another gun stashed somewhere, I know Kyle is not part of it, though the shooting is loud enough that it must be close. The exchange of fire continues for several long seconds, and then the chaos begins.

Distant sounds fill the night air—screams, breaking glass, crashing furniture, and the noise of feet pounding against stone and bodies falling as a crazed, terrified crowd moves erratically to run for cover or hide. Nicole takes a half step towards me, eyes wide with fear.

All at once, my priorities shift from slip out unnoticed to protect Nicole. She moves towards me for safety. She just saw me throw a knife at and possibly fatally wound a man, but in this moment, she believes I will protect her. And in this moment, I want to be the man she thinks I am.

So, I will.

“Stay with me,” I say, grabbing her arm before she can wander in the wrong direction. She is shaking in my grip, and I want to soothe her, but there are more pressing matters. I reopen the communication channel. “What is happening?”

“I don’t know!” she cries softly in response, thinking that I was asking her.

Wesley’s voice enters my right ear, calm, steady, and factual. “I can’t see where the shots came from, but every guard in this place is heading for the house or the maze. This is your only chance before they block off every exit. Get out of there now! ”

When another shot goes off, Nicole whimpers and shifts so close to me that our bodies are pressed together.

Now is not the time to notice how well she fits against me—how solid and tall she is, like she would not bend or break in my grip. Soft, warm skin, rounded curves…

Not the fucking time!

“Nicole, listen to me. I will lead you out, but I need both hands. Stay close and try to move quickly and silently.”

Eyes wet and round, like shining coins at the bottom of a pool, she nods. Another round of gunshots that sounds even closer intensifies her shaking.

“Can you do this?”

“Yes! Let’s go already!” she hisses.

In a very counterproductive response, I nearly falter in my step.

Her composure is unexpected. I expected her to be crying and making noise and unable to think rationally—how most regular people react to terrifying situations.

I do not know if she is hiding it, or if fear does not rule her as it would others, but I have seen seasoned Bratva men freeze when faced with the pressure we are under. I am impressed. And relieved.

I pull out my phone to consult the map of the maze, stow it, and head for the exit. The need to reach back and hold her hand is a physical pull that takes some effort to ignore. Instead, I fill my hands with knives.

I have to trust that she will stay behind me—if I look back, I cannot protect our front.

Before we round the first turn, I hear a strangled noise of relief and turn in time to see her bend down and pick something up. “My purse,” she whispers, tucking it under her arm.

Good. Better not to leave behind evidence that we were here.

Our progress is slow as I guide us carefully through the maze, staying low and moving with purpose, so I am not terribly surprised that we do not encounter Kyle on the way out.

We pass a couple cowering in a corner and a man trying to conceal himself at the base of the bushes, but I ignore them.

I sense her brief hesitation, wanting to help, but ultimately deciding to follow me instead.

She has good self-preservation instincts. I approve.

When we reach the back exit of the maze, I hold up a hand to stop her so I can check if we are clear to run for the wooded area.

We are. The line of trees is only 10 meters away, and the grassy stretch of lawn is empty of people as far as I can see.

There was a guard by the gate all night, but he must have responded to the gunshots. Luck is with us. Finally.

I slide one knife back into my belt, freeing up my non-dominant hand to reach for her.

“Now, we run.”

She takes my hand; I grip hers tightly, and we move.

We hurry across the grass towards the gate.

She is able to keep up behind me, but breathing hard at my pace, so I refuse to let go when her hand twists in mine, seeking freedom.

She slows further when we reach the new-growth forest falling into dormancy for the winter.

I realize she is not wearing shoes as she hisses in pain and stumbles along—each gentle, muffled gasp is a shard of ice through my gut.

But I cannot pick her up; it would make us a slower, larger target to hit in case we are being pursued.

Emerging on the other side of the wooded area, we are suddenly back in suburban civilization. The road where I parked is deserted at this hour, and I guide her through people’s lawns so we are outside the range of the street lamps placed at intervals on the sidewalk.

I unlock the SUV with my key in the door instead of the button, so there is no flash of the headlights to give anyone a warning of where we are before we can drive away.

Opening the passenger door, I usher her into the space. “Get in.”

Cornered, her eyes dart around past me, into the looming darkness.

I cannot be sure what that wild look means, but she has three seconds to decide to fight me or run.

It will not matter if she does either, because she is getting in the car.

I would prefer not to have to carry and throw her in—I have a feeling she would kick and scratch.

The thought is more arousing than it ought to be.

She makes a brief second of terrified eye contact, then spins and grabs the internal handle to pull herself into the front seat.

I have to applaud her survival instinct yet again—she has clearly judged that I am her best chance out of this situation.

I close her door, then trot around to the other side and get behind the wheel.

“Where are we going?” she asks, reaching back for the seatbelt as I start the car.

“Away,” I reply. I have no further plans at the moment.

I pull out into the street as quickly as the speed limit permits.

The dashboard clock says 12:35 AM, but local law enforcement is still a concern.

Even once I am far enough from the crime scene, it is still a Saturday night and they are waiting for drunk drivers in the shadows of side streets.

Speeding is an easy reason to give them to stop me, and we cannot afford that.

The street lamps flash through the darkness of the car, periodically illuminating both of us, and the coppery scent of my blood fills the air, nauseating me—likely due to the loss of so much of it.

Nicole shivers, then physically shies away as I lean forward to turn on the heat. “Are we going to the police?” she asks, voice small.

I can tell that she already knows she will not receive the answer she wants to hear. So why ask? I cut her a look that hopefully conveys my frustration with her inane question, and she nods, dejected. “Okay, no police.”

Silence hangs between us, feeling more and more intentional as we pass beyond the limits of the Ulysses suburbs. New Jersey is a curious landscape of beachfront areas, agriculture, forests and metropolitan hubs. The shift from urban landscape to highway in the middle of the forest is abrupt.

The more distance we get, the less certain I am about what to do. The stupidity of the decisions I made in the heat of the moment is slowly crystallizing.