I frown at her, confused. “I won’t.”
“Good.”
I shut the door and turn to face the ramp opening.
Another pair of black Suburbans rocket up the ramp and skid sideways.
“Bad guys?” Taj asks, drawing his own pistol.
“Well, they’re not here to give us a steak and a BJ,” I say, racking my slide.
He chuckles. “I suppose not.”
It’s not Gennedy—I don’t recognize either driver. Which is good—makes this next part easier.
See, I may have taken a vow to not kill anyone, but that doesn’t mean I can’t put a lot of fucking hurt down.
I drop to one knee and put three rounds in quick succession into the lead Suburban’s engine compartment, releasing a hissing gout of steam. Taj does the same to the other one. I put a round low through the driver’s door panel, below the window, near the handle. Not armored, thank god; I hear a yowl of pain as my round hits flesh.
Doors are opening, disgorging suited Cabal soldiers. Eight of them, two of us. I like the odds a lot better with Taj at my side, although I’d rather it be one of my brothers if I’m being honest.
I put everything out of my mind, then. There’s only now. Only the fight.
I pick my target and let my body, my instincts, and my training, do the rest.
I may not be willing to kill, but knowing Naomi is counting on me to protect her, there’s no mercy in me.
Time to fuck some shit up.
the fight
Naomi
Ihear the gunshots. A yell. Silence. A grunt. Another unintelligible yell. Another gunshot.
Curiosity wins out over caution. I lift up inch by inch until I can see over the back of the seat through the still-open rear hatch.
Chaos.
I have eyes only for Silas. He’s a whirlwind of brutal destruction. It’s clear he’s focusing on maiming his opponents, taking them out of the fight without killing them. I imagine this is much harder than merely killing them, although I confess I know little of such things.
He’s using his hands and feet and elbows and knees in a brutal barrage of bone-breaking and joint-snapping violence. He’s engaging four men simultaneously, dodging kicks and ducking punches, catching a wrist and twisting the arm into a painful contortion before crushing the elbow inside out.
One of the bad men in the black suits pulls his pistol—his anger and fear are visible, palpable. He thought Silas would be an easy target, I think. He watches Silas moving, gun drawn and aimed, waiting for a clear shot. Silas doesn’t seem to see the threat. Neither does Taj, who is engaged in his own battle with multiple enemies. His style of fighting is different, using kicks and punches whereas Silas uses redirection, blocking, and bone and joint strikes. Both are effective and brutal, just in drastically different ways.
“Silas!” I shout, watching the man with the drawn gun preparing to fire.
My shout is either perfectly timed or the worst timing: It causes the man with the gun to jerk at the last second, sending the shot that would have killed Silas to fly wide, pocking the partial wall with a spray of concrete shards; it also distracts Silas, and he takes a punch to the ribs, near his diaphragm.
The hit forces him to double over and twist away, gasping and groaning. His moment of weakness is immediately capitalized upon by his enemies—before he can recover, he’s taken several more blows to the body. He turtles, ducking his head and covering his body with his forearms.
I wince sympathetically as I hear the blows hit, thuds and crunches and muffled smacks, accompanied by his groans and grunts.
I saved his life, but at what cost?
He ducks, dodges, twists, dances, but he’s lost the edge, lost his momentum. He’s taking punishing blow after blow, and I can see the pain written on his face.
I have to do something.
