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Page 38 of Brian and Mina's Holiday Hits

“I’ll do everything I can not to kill him. I promise. That has to be enough. Are you coming?”

When I move in his direction, he turns and strides to the elevator, jabbing the button like he’s mad at it, but I know he’s just buzzing with the same adrenaline I am at the uncertainty that awaits us on the top floor.

The elevator slides open and we walk inside and turn to face the door. He takes my hand in his, and the door slides closed. It’s somehow even quieter in this enclosed metal box than it was in the lobby. I take a deep breath as I watch the numbers light up going all the way to the top, feeling the steady warmth of Brian’s hand in mine.

We’re barely out of the elevator when we come upon the lone remaining guard. He’s surprised to see us. Clearly he bought that Brian was one of their team. Brian drops him with two bullets before he can even go for his gun. More fireworks explode outside, but we’re too close for gunfire to blend in with the festivities. The element of surprise is long gone.

A door opens, and one of the targets comes out to see what’s happening. His gun isn’t even drawn. He probably isn’t accustomed to using it with so much protection around him. I turn and fire three shots. Two of them go into him, and he falls, but one barely grazes his ear before embedding in the wall behind him.

“Mina, down!”

I drop down at Brian’s voice as two throwing stars whiz over my head in quick succession. Then I hear a grunt, a gurgle, a heavy thud, followed by warm sticky blood spraying on me as a man grabs at his throat trying to stem the flow. But it’s futile. One of the stars hit his carotid.

I stand back up and turn. Before I can fully think the phrase:just one more, I turn to find Brian jumping in front of me. I don’t process the gunshot until he’s on the ground. I cry out, but raise my gun and fire at the man who just shot Brian—our third and final target. He crumples to the floor, and I stride over and put two more in his head for good measure.

I rush back to Brian and roll him over, searching for the injury. He’s covered in blood, and I can’t see through my tears.

“Brian? Brian!” I shake him.

He coughs. “Calm down. Let a guy catch his breath.”

There’s so much blood. I’m still looking for the wound and how to stop the bleeding when his hand covers mine. “Shhhh. It’s not my blood. It’s that guy.” He jerks his head to the side, and I see that he fell into the pool of blood created from the man who just bled out from the throwing stars.

I shove Brian’s black T-shirt up and peel the flattened bullet off the Kevlar vest.

“I can’t believe these things really work.”

“Science!” Brian says. “But it still knocks the fucking wind out of you.”

Now that my heartbeat is calming back to normal, I realize we aren’t alone. With dawning horror, I look up to find the boy, tears streaming down his face. How long was he standing there? How much did he see?

Oh God, did he see the throwing stars? And all that blood?

“Hey,” I say softly.

Not sure how well that’s going to work if he just saw me kill people.

The kid turns and runs into the conference room, slamming the door behind him.

TWENTY-ONE

mina

There’s so much blood.I’ve never seen so much blood in real life. And somehow this feels different than Matsumoto, because this time there are consequences I have to think about. Some people deserve to die, yes, but most evil people have someone who loves them. A mother, a wife, a child.

When you take a life, you aren’t just taking that life, you’re taking lives of innocent people who had nothing to do with any of it. Except that even though they’re dead, they still walk and talk and look like you and I. They still pass you on the street, offer pleasantries, drive in rush hour traffic, and buy overpriced coffee. But they aren’t truly alive, not anymore.

The conference room is locked. Brian bangs on the door. “Open this door!”

“Brian!” I hiss. “He’s just a scared little boy. You think he’s letting the boogeyman in?”

Brian fires shots into the door and kicks it open.

When we enter the room, the boy is hiding under the table as though we can’t see him, trying not to cry too loud. But of course we can both see and hear him. I look out the floor-to-ceiling windows, for a moment distracted by the view. You could almostreach out and touch the fireworks, and you can just make out lights from the parade below.

The kid’s sniffling from under the table draws me back.

“I have to get him out of here,” I say.


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