Page 66 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)
MERCY
T he pistol digs into my side. My stiletto heels clack on the terrazzo floor. Blood flow swishes like the roar of a seashell against my eardrum.
In the short path we’ve trudged, being led out of the courtroom and down the back hallway, I’ve had a thousand thoughts.
At least I managed to send the text to Ryker. I’d had it ready each time I went to court, like a superstitious precaution. One I’m grateful I took, despite the pushback I gave him about this.
It’s like we’re reliving the events from three years ago. I told him he was worrying for nothing. He relented. Our world imploded.
God, he must be furious with me.
At least he knows I love him this time.
No, I can’t think that way. That’s giving up. We made it through that nightmare. We’ll make it through this.
He has a tracker on me. And security all over the courthouse.
There’s still hope.
I’m puzzled as to what the endgame is here. Bryce sounded like a psycho—oh, I’m sorry, a fucking grandstander —who simply wanted to boast that he’d put me in a no-win situation.
He clearly revels in using people like pawns. It’s probably what an outsider would believe the Noires do. They take pride in their puppeteering and admitted as much at the Prohibition Ball, but while they gain from pulling those strings, they also thrive on the benefits their members reap.
Bryce is demented, seeking to torture. Which is why this doesn’t check out.
“What was the point of that asshole confessing everything if you’re planning to kill me anyway?” Those words finally emerge in a snarl as the vinegary stench of trash wafts toward me.
“No one’s killing you. I’m getting you to safety.” The bailiff, who is obviously not a traditional bailiff, sounds dead serious. Like he’s my savior, who’s been dodging the throngs of scurrying people to get me to some super-secret safe place.
No one even acknowledged my yells for help. They were drowned out by the panicky howls from the rest of the building. And an explosion.
What if Bryce did something to Ryker?
No, it’s Ryker. He’s fine. His security team is terrifying.
“Getting me to safety from wha—” My words are devoured by another explosion. This one is outside somewhere.
“The chaos.” Seemingly prepared for that blast, he tucks me into his side to guide me out a door that leads to a slight ramp and graces me with sarcasm. “Have you been too checked out to notice the entire building is being evacuated?”
I scoff, the rancid odor of the dumpster jostling my stomach acid. “And that doesn’t have anything to do with Bryce Wakeford needing to escape or someone trying to harm me or the people I’m with?”
“You must be mistaken, ma’am.” His tone is dry, like he’s bored. “I don’t know Bryce Wakeford. But I do know there is an attack on the courthouse, and I was hired to escort you out.”
That’s bullshit, but I still test it. “Then let me go.”
He glares around the corner, which is devoid of people. That must be where the explosion just came from, clearing the area. “Can’t do that. Like I said, I was hired to escort you.”
“Well, who the fuck hired you, and where the hell were you told to take me?”
He yanks me along, his thumb and index finger digging into the flesh of my bicep as he tows me past a couple of side streets, toward an alleyway. “Ryker Noire hired me to take you far away from here.”
What. The. Fuck?
That can’t be right. Ryker would never hire someone to take me far away. If he had someone on the inside working for him, he’d have them bring me to him.
And then it hits me. Bryce couldn’t have anyone harm me, or it would nullify the attorney-client privilege.
Honestly, even his threatening manner did that, though it would be harder to prove.
But he set this all up to look as though Ryker attacked the courthouse.
So, if I came forward, I’d be disbarred and appear as though I was falsely testifying to save my fiancé.
Jesus. This guy is ten steps ahead.
Another tip from Ty flits through my mind. “Never let them change your location. Your chance of survival plummets once you’re relocated. Do whatever is necessary to stay where you are.”
The bastard bailiff’s strides are fast now.
Nearly too swift for me to keep pace. I scrutinize every inch of our journey for how I should fight back—the secluded alley, the dingy brick buildings, the piles of trash, the puddles of sewer runoff, the rickety fire-escape stairways, and the boarded windows.
Nothing sticks out, aside from the decaying city musk blending with urine and pot and some expertly cooked onions. Like the offensive stench of a corpse. Vomit shoots up my esophagus.
My self-defense techniques are admittedly rusty. I have a pretty strong palm strike. I landed a few on Dalton, not that it did me much good. The idea of turning this into a physical altercation has sweat slicking my spine and my tongue growing heavy.
But my eyes land on another man, standing by a car at the end of the long alley, staring back at us. This might be my only opportunity to get home to Remy. It will give Ryker the chance to find me. I have to do it.
As soon as the thought floods me, my ankle twists on the uneven asphalt, and I tumble to the ground.
The bailiff cusses, getting up in my face and hissing at me to stand. I try to scramble to my feet, knowing I can fight better from a standing position, but my ankle hurts.
And it pisses me off.
The pain. The hiding. The not being home with my baby. I’m so fucking tired of this shit. Of shards and lies and monsters preying on me.
My shattered glass.
When you’re reduced to shards, it’s impossible not to slice those around you.
That’s right. It’s time to fucking cut. Years’ worth of rage have me viewing everyday items in a different light.
“Stick to simple defense moves, and remember, anything can be a weapon.”
Life boils down to moments. I refuse to trade them all without a valiant swing.
But I know I only get one chance here. So, I take it.
Ripping off my stiletto, which the bailiff mistakes as me soothing my sore ankle, I grip the base of the shoe and thrust the spiked heel with every morsel of strength I possess into the asshole’s eye socket.
He emits a beastly squawk that echoes off the metal and brick and power lines to create a tunnel of resounding anguish.
Blood squirts and oozes and trickles.
He stumbles backward and drops as the other guy dashes toward me.
Just like that, I’m a murderer in an alleyway by the courthouse.
And still a target.