Hawk (Sex and Bullets Book 2) (13 page)

“My grandfather was a huge man. Old Norwegian family, from my mother’s side. Whalers and sailors, apparently. He was in the military. Tough guy. When I was first sent there, I moped and threw a hissy fit. Broke everything in the room I was assigned. He came, saw that and threw me against the wall.”

She lifts her head and frowns. “He hurt you.”

“He put me in my place. Nobody had ever done that. Nobody had ever touched me like that, with such disregard for who I was in the world—for how much money I was to inherit. He slapped me around, then set me down and talked to me.”

“Hawk, come on. He hurt you, admit it.”

“Nah.” I swallow hard, because this is something I can’t sort out in my head yet. Can’t talk about it. “He saw me.”

But nobody ever really touched me until you.

And this is not the time for sappy thoughts, I think as I disentangle the warm, exhausted girl from my side.

But I stop again because she looks miserable.

“What is it?” I stroke her smooth cheek. “I was just gonna check the exits, see if I find a way out. We can’t afford to be moved from here. At least here we know where we are.”

She shakes her head. “My dad. He knows about this. He allowed it.” She bites her lip, and I lick my own, fucking obsessed. “I hate him.”

Fuck, how can I focus on getting out of here when everything she does sends all my blood to my dick? When she’s talking about her fucking dad, and I get a hard-on just because she’s right here, with me?

I need to move. “So we’re going for Plan F.” I rub the crease between my brows, willing the maddening headache away.

Plan A was my watch. Plan B was Layla’s phone. And yeah, we’ve jumped to F in one fucking second of back luck.

“That’s F for fail?” she whispers.

“Nah. F for Fuck it. Time to escape. Any ideas where I could look?”

She pushes herself to her feet, and I grip her arm to help her.

Which brings us flush together.

Hell.

“You should have left, Layla. If you get hurt, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Kill them all, for one. Then resurrect them and kill them again.”

That earns me a ghost of a smile. “You’re crazy. But look. You said you’re responsible because your parents were part of it. Well, my dad is part of it too, and that makes me responsible.”

God, I like her. I realize now I never really knew her. Never tried to get to know her, what with keeping my distance and shit.

But it was also that I never thought I’d like her. When I first met her I thought she was pretty, but that was it. Guess this makes me sound like a self-righteous prick, but I thought she was shallow and boring. I thought she only cared for some fun and for her next pedicure appointment.

As time passed, she grew on me, and now… Never thought I’d be happy just to talk to her, to hold her. That we’d think alike, and put ourselves in danger alike.

That she’s so brave, and crazy at the same time, and that she might understand me so well.

“I need to do this, Layla.” I cup her face, meet her gaze full-on, letting her see I’m being honest with her, one hundred percent transparent. “Need to set things right. In my dreams, my grandpa asks me who he raised me to be. And I can come up with only one answer: he didn’t raise me to be a coward and a selfish bastard, someone who values his life above that of others. He raised me to be fair and… I dunno. He died two years ago, but I owe it to him to try. I owe it to the people the Organization destroyed. To the future. Is it too corny if I say I owe it to the future generations?”

She smiles. “Not corny at all.”

And we set out to check this fucking basement for a way out, hand in hand.

Together.

Never once has this hand-holding, togetherness thing felt so right before, and damn if that isn’t scarier than the mess we’re in.

***

“Once this is over,” she whispers, “what will you do? Will you go out of town, or out of the country, until things calm down?”

“I might.”

I don’t wanna admit to her that for the first time since I concocted this crazy plan, I’m not sure I will get out. We’re checked the doors leading to the stairwell. I can’t see how to pick the lock or break it.

And it pisses me off, because I need to get her out of here, and I can’t.

Suddenly, I’m hit with the need to tell her more, to tell her everything, not just about my grandpa, but about how I feel. How I’ve discovered I feel when she’s around. The things I discovered I want for the future.

But I haven’t even opened my mouth to spill my guts to her, when she gasps and slaps her forehead.

“Of course. The seats.”

“What seats?”

“The metal boxes. By the double doors.”

I give her a concerned look. “I know I asked this before, but are you feeling okay?” I lift my free hand to touch her forehead.

She bats my hand away. “I’m fine. Come on.” She tugs me toward the double doors. “We can’t get out on our own, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“We can’t get out until they come to get us, until they unlock the doors.”

“Yes, but that’s—”

“So we need to hide when they do. They walk inside, start looking for us. We get out of the boxes, go through the door and lock it, then go up and leave.”

I stop and stare at her as if seeing her for the first time. “That’s… fucking clever, Hot Body.”

“Layla,” she says automatically.

I grin. “My Layla, then.”

A flush suffuses her cheeks, and fuck, I wanna kiss her, but she turns away and tugs on my hand once more.

“Let’s check if we fit inside.”

“I’m so hard right now, I’m not sure I’ll fit.” I waggle my brows at her.

“Stop it.” But her mouth quirks. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Nah, but you’d be so full of me, if I fit.”

“Jesus, Hawk.” She shakes her head. “Nothing ever puts you down, does it?”

“You gave me courage,” I admit as we reach the boxes. “I’d lost my wits at some point, and you showing up…” I shrug and wince. “You reminded me what I’m fighting for.”

“For the future generations?” she asks, and there’s a sadness in her eyes.

I remember then she said she can’t have children, and I wish I knew how to comfort her. Let her know that it doesn’t matter to me.

I grip her chin, turn her face toward me. “Layla, if we get out of this alive… Would you go out with me?”

“Go out… Like a real date?” Her eyes sparkle, and I can’t tell if it’s excitement or unshed tears.

“Like a very real date. Official date,” I clarify, because we’ve done the dinner and kissing and wild sex afterward, but it meant nothing then.

It does now.

She nods, smiling faintly, and I kiss her quickly on the mouth.

“Let’s do this.”

Yeah, let’s fucking do it and to hell with doubting and fear.

***

The boxes are open, and we do fit in. We quickly settle inside one each and close the lids over our heads.

It’s stifling. It’s cramped. Try folding a six-foot-four frame into a metal box. I feel like a sushi roll, and all my bruises are screaming at me.

And then there’s the wait. God, I hope they come soon, or we’ll die of lack of oxygen in here.

Maybe slowing down my breathing might help. My heart is pounding with adrenaline. Sweat is trickling down my back, down my face.

I hope Layla is okay in the box next to mine.

I go over our quick plan in my mind, trying to calm the fuck down. I’ve turned it into a checklist, and I start checking items.

Listen out for our captors—Layla will do that, since I’m half deaf. She will open the lid of my box.

I get out and close the lid again.

We creep out of the basement.

We close and lock the doors.

We creep up the stairs.

We check for guards, and make our way out.

Stalk out of the compound.

Find transportation.

Book it outta here.

Sounds simple enough. I bet it won’t be that fucking simple, and I don’t care, as long as it works.

Christ, talk about sensory deprivation. If it was bad with the blindfold and without my hearing aid, now it’s hell. Add to it the way my muscles are cramping over my bruised ribs, and this is pure white-hot agony.

It’s all I can do not to push the lid up and straighten, betray us in case Sandivar and his goons are back.

Seconds turn to minutes, minutes into a fucking hour. The hour turns into two—or so it feels. There is not enough oxygen. My lungs are burning. My folded legs tremble. My chest hurts like hell.

Will they fucking never come?

Three eternities later, the lid of my container rattles. I hesitate for exactly one second—and then shove upward with my back until air fills my lungs, and I see Layla’s face.

She carefully lifts the lid off, and I climb out of the container that felt like a coffin for a while there. A glance around shows me a distinct lack of goons, but the way she flinches and turns toward the rows of containers tells me she can hear them.

I help her put the lid back on, take her hand and hurry to the open doors. I hear something, a faint shout, as I turn and slam the doors shut, then fumble for the lock.

Turn the key.

Let out a breath.

Could it be I was wrong and things will go our way? I ponder this, trying to catch my breath just as the doors rattle. I lean back against them.

She glances up the stairs, then grips my wrist, her eyes wide. “More people,” she mouths.

Fuck.
Of course there are.

Pushing off the door, I motion for her to wait, and I start up the stairs. It’s as if the air is fresher here. Maybe it is. Hard to believe I’m finally out of the fucking basement.

Don’t think I’m going into a basement ever again. Not even if it saved the world.

I’m fucking serious.

The pain from my bruises fades in the rush of adrenaline. It makes my heart race, the blood in my veins sing. Bloodlust tints my vision red. Maybe I’ll go berserk like my Viking forefathers did in battle.

Who the fuck knows?

When the guy appears on the steps above me, I barrel into him. Kinda hard to do when you’re below someone, but I manage. I punch him, he tries to punch me back, and we topple down to the landing.

The air is knocked out of my lungs, and goddammit, my body aches in new and fascinating ways, but I manage to punch him again in the jaw, hard, laying him out cold.

I stare at him for a long moment, bent over, panting like a diesel engine running on fumes.

And then the other thug is on me. Scarface himself. He actually roars as he does so.

Maybe he has Viking ancestors, too, I think vaguely as we crash down the next flight of stairs.

Layla screams, and that distracts me briefly—long enough for Scarface to get a good punch into my solar plexus.

Ah fuck.
I roll on my side, gasping, and he kicks me. He prepares to kick me again—but curses and twists.

Layla is beating her fists on his back and kicking at his legs.

Even curled up around the pain, I chuckle.

That’s my girl.

I roll to my knees, and then to my feet, and draw back my fist with all the pent-up fury I’ve been bottling inside these past few days. The first punch is spectacular, breaking his nose and blood spraying everywhere, then lay one after another on him, until he topples over, groaning.

Layla bends over and throws up.

Yeah.
Not the kind of things I’d want my girl to be seeing, dammit. I wipe my bloody hands down my pants and grab her arm.

“Time to haul tail, babe. Come on.” I drag her up the stairs, making a beeline for the exit. “And then we can have that date we talked about.”

Layla

We stumble out into the yard, blinking like a pair of owls. Immediately I pull Hawk to the side, against the wall, to check if anyone else is coming.

It’s another gray day, and a cold drizzle is falling. I draw the cool, clean air in my lungs gratefully, lick water off my lips, and listen.

It’s quiet.

Still.

The coast looks clear.

If only my knees didn’t feel weak and bile didn’t still coat my throat. Flashes of the man’s bloodied face, the splash of red on Hawk’s shirt return to haunt my mind, and I swallow hard.

Dorothy’s car is just outside, but the key is my purse, and that’s in the possession of our captors.

This time Hawk is the one tugging on my hand. Then he lets go, and his arm goes around my waist, anchoring me. Sliding along the wall, we make our way toward the gate of the warehouse yard, stumbling on shaky legs.

I point at the side gate, and we hurry toward it. We just need to hit the main avenue to get a cab or an Uber. I hope they stop for us. We must look like nightmarish ghosts, pale, filthy, without jackets, shivering with cold, barely staying upright. Hawk covered in blood, his fair hair and beard turned into dirty brown. My own long hair tangled over my shoulders, stinking of vomit.

Gah. Stop thinking about vomit.

My stomach gurgles, and I swallow hard. I’m not used to going for so long without food. I want a burger, juicy and covered in melted cheese, and fries, and mayo.

My mouth watering, I follow Hawk onto the street. We sidle into the shadows of a narrow alley, and why am I thinking of food when we could get captured any moment?

Looks like I’m not cut out for suspenseful adventures. Never thought I was anyway. The most action I’d seen in the past year was the trip to New York to visit Mom, and that was mostly shopping and having coffee in chic cafés.

It feels like light years ago, not just a few days.

“All right?” Hawk rasps, and I nod, clinging to his hand. It feels strong and hard and capable, wrapped around mine, and his tall, muscular frame calms the roiling in my stomach a little. I need his strength, and it’s difficult to reconcile it with the memory of him tied to that pillar in the basement, helpless and beaten.

But we’re out of there now. He’s fine. We’re fine.

I grip his hand more tightly, and he squeezes back, reassuring. I keep an ear out for sounds of pursuit—never thought I’d ever use that phrase in real life—since Hawk can’t hear so well. He’s the eyes. I’m the ears.