Page 57 of Silas

I have the collapsible baton he gave me. I look at it, still clutched in my hand. It seems like an innocuous enough thing, not very heavy, not very big. How much damage can it really do? Maybe enough to give him to regain the upper hand, at least.

It takes a split second for all this to go through my head. A pair of heartbeats, at the very most, has elapsed since I shouted his name.

I’m acting on impulse, rational thought or fear or prudence buried and blocked. All there is within me is the need to protect him. To help him. To stop him from experiencing pain. He’s done so much for me already—I can’t just sit here safe and comfortable, watching him get hurt. Not when I could do something to help.

It’s this blind impulse, this visceral instinct that has me scrambling over the seatback and into the trunk and down to the ground. I pull the knob at the end of the baton to fully extend it—Silas used a sexy little flick of his wrist to make it fly out, but I’m scared of drawing attention to myself.

I creep forward, toward the fight. No one is looking at me. They’re all focused on each other, on doing as much damage as possible. The man with the gun is still trying to get an angle on Silas. He’s the one I need to do something about. I edge around in a wide arc, the baton held in both hands like a baseball bat. Even extended, it feels light and balanced. Will it really cause enough damage to help the situation?

My hands shake. I’ve never perpetrated an act of violence before. I’ve only been the recipient.

BANG!

I jump at the sudden explosion of the gun going off—I hear a grunt at nearly the same moment. A stain darkens the black fabric of Silas’s shirtsleeve. It doesn’t seem to slow him down. He barely seems to even register that he’s been hit.

I’m behind the gunman, now. Six feet away… need to get closer.

I shuffle carefully forward. He’s aiming again, gun held in both hands in the stance of someone intimately familiar with and trained in the use of firearms. I wind up with the baton like I’m chopping wood.

Silas catches a glimpse of me and his eyes widen. Fear—for me, I assume—washes over his face. He’s wrestling with an enemy, struggling to get a foot or hand free, to land a blow while keeping his body away from the other combatants.

The gunman takes a shuffled half-step forward and to the side, seeking a better angle. My heart pounds in my throat, my hands sweat, and I tighten my grip on the baton. Silas gives a subtle shake of his head—the gunman sees the gesture and spins.

Time seems to stretch, then, taffying into slow motion as he brings his gun to bear on me.

I swing the baton with all my strength, aiming for his head. My arms seem to weigh a thousand pounds each, like I can’t make them move any faster. I see his finger curling around the trigger. Tightening.

BAM!

Something hot slices the side of my neck; at the same time, my whole body jolts as the baton makes contact with the gunman.

There’s a wet thunk, as if someone dropped a ripe watermelon onto concrete.

Wet droplets spatter my face.

The gunman drops instantly, crumpling to the ground in a boneless heap.

Somehow, this action stops the fight for a moment—everyone is staring at me and the motionless lump on the ground at my feet.

At the spreading pool of blood beneath his skull.

“Oh…oh no.” I cover my mouth with one hand, dropping the baton. “Oh no. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to kill him.” I back away a few steps, my gaze going to the blood-dripping knob at the end of the baton.

Silas recovers first, lashing out with a knife-edge hand strike to a throat followed by a sweep of the legs, dropping his opponent to the ground like a sack of wheat. Taj makes quick work of his opponent with a pair of quick, sharp jabs and a palm strike to the solar plexus.

Silence, then, except for a chorus of groans.

Silas steps over a prone, writhing body, catching my shoulders in his hands. “Breathe, Naomi.” His green eyes are warm and concerned, his hands gentle. “Take a deep breath in for me.”

His words force onto me the realization that my lungs burn with pent-up breath, and I suck in a lungful of oxygen. The action of breathing saps the strength from my legs, and I collapse, sobbing.

He catches me. “You did good, honey. You’re all right. You’re okay.”

I can only shake my head, eyes screwed shut. “I killed him. I killed him.”

“Here.” I hear Taj’s voice, and then I feel fabric on my face, wiping and dabbing.

Silas scoops me up in his strong arms, cradling me against his chest. I feel him move, and then we’re sitting in the open trunk of the SUV and I’m sobbing and he’s just holding me.