Saxon's foot lances out, turning the third man's knee in sideways, and then he spins around on one foot and his heel cracks against the man's skull; it sounds like someone threw a watermelon against the wall. Another pop: a bloodstain erupts on the third man's thigh.
Four: Saxon slashes the barrel of the gun against the last assassin's throat, causing him to stagger backward, gurgling and gasping. POP! He drops, clutching his stomach.
Thirty seconds, at the very most, have elapsed since the elevator dinged.
Saxon shoves the silenced pistol into his waistband, under his jacket. He grabs a second pistol and places it next to the first, then rummages in pockets until he finds four spare magazines; these he puts in his jacket pockets, two on each side. Last, he bends, grabs a man by the shirt front and tosses him, a little too easily, into the elevator—it's all happened so fast the elevator hasn't even closed yet.
He throws all four men into the elevator and then presses the button for the top floor.
He turns to look at me, and he's not even winded. "Let's go."
I just stare at him. "You're like John Wick." I frown at him. "You didn't kill them."
“I took a vow to never kill again,” he explains, crossing back to me and grabbing my hand. “Now, come on. We’ve got to get scarce.”
I haul back as hard as I can. It’s like pulling on a mountain, but he allows me to pull him to a stop. “I’m not missing Emily’s wedding.”
He growls. “Did you miss what just happened?”
I shake my head. “Not a chance. It was hot as fuck. You scare me, but it’s hot.” I pat his chest. “Listen, hot shot, Emily is my ride or die. I don’t care if all the orcs in Mordor are after you, and by unfortunate extension, me. I’m not missing Em’s wedding. No way, no how, not happening. As soon as she says I do and kisses Tommy, we can run like Thelma and Louise, okay? But I have to be at her side when she gets married. It’s not up for debate.”
“You’ve got a screw loose.”
I burst out laughing. “What was your first clue, Hercule Poirot?” I pull him back to the conference room doors, humming Pachelbel’s Canon. “Bum bum bumbum…”
“Fuck,” he snarls, jerking his hand away and straightening his jacket and pawing at his hair so it’s neat again. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
I shake my head, hopping up to grab at his head. “Get down here.”
He frowns, but crouches. “What?”
I mess up his hair again, plucking at this strand and that one, until it’s artfully messy once more. Then I tug his tie a little loose, opening the top button.
“Good,” I say, patting his chest. “Now we can go.”
“Fuckin’ wacky ass nutjob, you are,” he mutters, but I hear amusement and respect in his voice. “Anything else?”
I huff into my hand and then wrinkle my nose up at him. “Got any Tic-Tacs?”
Down The Rabbit Hole
Saxon
Fuck.
This chick.
