Page 2 of Rastor

What a couple of douchebags.

Lying there, the guys looked up, looking shell-shocked and maybe a little afraid.

Okay, a lot afraid.

Good.

Their hands were tied, but their feet weren't. Probably, they'd been using those feet to kick at the tail lights.

I gave them a good long look. "So, you want out?" I made a show of stepping back. "Be my guest."

The two guys exchanged a glance. Slowly, they sat up and looked around, taking in the destruction around us. After a long moment, the guy in the boxers spoke up. "Is this a trick or something?"

"No trick." I flicked my head toward the darkened street. "Go ahead. Start walking."

He looked toward the street and swallowed. "Walking?" He hesitated. "But, uh, I've got the car, so…"

I gave a small laugh. The sedan?Hedidn't have it.Idid. And I wasn't giving it up. Not yet.

"No car," I told him. "You want out? You'll be going on foot."

The guy's face was smeared with thin streaks of dried blood, but not as much as there could've been. My fingers flexed. Not as much as thereshouldhave been.

Fucking Bishop. And here, he claimed to be the voice of reason.

Maybe.

But I was in no mood to be reasonable.

Smiling, I pulled the blade from my back pocket and flicked it open. I recalled the knife at Chloe's throat, held there a few hours earlier by the idiot in front of me.Hisknife hadn't been real. But at the time, I didn't know that. And neither did Chloe.

I recalled the sounds of her fear, and the sight of her lying there, helpless while some stranger in black held her down. Even now, the memory of it tore through my heart. I could still hear her whimpers, fake knife or not.

Standing at the trunk, I lifted my own blade. Nowthisthing? It was real. And sharp.

In my old neighborhood, we lived by a code. If someone hit you, you hit them back – the harder the better. I held the blade higher. It glittered in the moonlight, and I felt my smile widen.

Bishop's voice cut across the shadows. "Don't."

I didn't bother to look. "Don't what?"

"Whatever you're thinking. We don't have time for this shit."

Hey, I'd make time.

In the trunk, the guy in the boxers had scrambled backward. When he tried to move further, he bumped his head on the trunk's open lid. "Son-of-a-bitch," he muttered.

Yeah. He was.

Again, I flicked my gaze toward the street. "Go ahead," I told him. "Run."

The guy's gaze shifted to Bishop.

"Don't look at me," Bishop said. "I'm not gonna save you."

It was a lie. If I went too far, he'd be pulling me back, just as he'd done earlier. Not for their sakes, for mine – or at least, that's he'd told me when the dust had settled.

So who was Bishop saving, anyway? Me? I made a scoffing sound. I didn't want to be saved. For one thing, I didn't deserve it. And for another, I didn't need it.