Hell's Kitchen (4 page)

I shrink deeper into the stall as the person stumbles back from the door and into my line of sight. I don’t want to look. I don’t want to know.

“Hey!” a deep voice yells. Instinctively, I look toward the source of the noise, both terrified and unreasonably calm, my fingers closing around the flush handle. The guy in front of me is scarily impressive, at least six four and pointing a gun in my face. Right in my face. I’m crammed in this stall, tucked on one side of the toilet, my hands itching. It feels like this is a dream. But it’s not a dream. This is really happening.

“Don’t do it,” the guy warns.

I start to push the flusher down when he steps closer, glancing down at the lone silver-colored key in the toilet bowl. “I said
don’t do it
. I need that key.”

“Maybe you should ask nicely,” I say, stalling. I hope the girl is far, far away by now, hauling ass to my apartment. I really don’t want to watch her head explode if this guy catches up to her and plants a bullet in her head.

Then again, I also don’t want to experience my own head exploding if he shoots
me
.

The guy, who looks more than slightly unhinged, cocks his head to the side and gives me a lopsided grin. “You look like a girl who does what she’s told,” he says, shaggy brown hair slipping over one hazel-colored eye.

“And you look like you should be driving a limo,” I reply, looking pointedly at the ridiculous hat he’s wearing. “So I guess we’re both a lousy judge of character.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “Okay, for you, I’ll ask. Pretty fucking please, get your fucking hand off that fucking toilet so I can get that fucking key!”

He scowls at me, his mouth twitching as if he’s incredibly angry.

I wonder if he’ll shoot me. I wonder why I’m so calm.

I flush the key.

And then, all I see is his fist flying at my face. I suck in a breath, expecting to fall like a sack of potatoes, hoping I won’t land face first in the toilet bowl and drown in three inches of rusty water. It’d be just my luck to die that stupidly. But his fist never reaches my face. Instead, it smashes into the veneer beside me that separates the stalls, the force so great that the wood splinters.

“You just made a big fucking mistake,” he grinds out, his eyes suddenly millimetres from mine. He grabs my upper arm roughly. “You’re gonna regret helping that little bitch, I guarantee you.”

He looks around, disgusted, and I have to suppress the urge to giggle. Nope, too late. The high-pitched sound slips out of my mouth for a second, until I clamp my hand over my lips, cutting it off. What the hell is wrong with me? I shouldn’t be giggling. This guy is scary as shit, he’s got a gun, and he’s pissed.

“What’s so fucking funny?” he grunts, letting my arm drop and grabbing a chunk of my hair instead. I yelp, expecting pain, but all he does is snatch a bobby pin out of the bird’s nest I styled so carefully this morning.

He unfolds the bobby pin and steps away from me, pressing one of the ends into the fire escape lock, giving it a jiggle. I slide sideways out of the toilet cubicle and back up a little, very slowly, thinking I can slip away while he’s concentrating on trying to get the door open. I’m starting to regret helping this Kaitlin chick escape, because if Miss Irish Royalty is being chased, it’s got to be some of the baddest motherfuckers in this city who would dare to pursue her. This guy’s got to be with the Italians. A hitman, maybe? But why?

I’m starting to think I might actually be able to sneak out of here when a hand darts out and yanks me back toward the heavy door. “I can see what you’re doing,” he says, obviously unimpressed. I want to roll my eyes, but I’m too scared right now to do anything except stand mutely and try not to think about the way a bullet would tear my face in half. I feel like I’m going to pee my pants. And throw up. And cry.

“What are you doing?” I ask, as the guy releases my arm and resumes his work on the lock. “It’s one of those magnetic locks,” I add. “It needs the original key to unlock it.”

The guy takes that in, presses his forehead to the door for a moment as he sighs loudly. “Fuuuuuuuuuck,” he groans, throwing the bobby pin on the ground near our feet. This entire time, he hasn’t lowered his gun, like he’s expecting me to attack him or something.

I hear sirens close by, and I know he does, too. He glances in the direction of the closed bathroom door. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I don’t want to hurt you, but—”

“So don’t,” I interrupt.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeats, frowning, “but you’ve just lost my mark. You’ve ruined my entire fucking day.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re the one who lost her,” I bite back. “All I did was help her get to safety.” As soon as the words have left my mouth, I’m cursing myself. What the hell did I just say that for?
 

This guy, this
fucking
guy, turns from pissed off to amused as if I’ve just clicked my fingers and made it happen. His crooked smile returns as he licks his lips, the sirens almost on the diner’s doorstep now.

“To
safety
, huh? And where exactly would that be?”

Holy Mother of God, I’m in deep shit.

THREE

GRACIE

We’re on the roof.

The passenger door yawns open, and Kaitlin is long gone. The silly bitch just sat there crying, chest heaving, while I sawed at her jammed seatbelt with one of my throwing knives, barely able to reach the webbing from where I was pinned. I could hear those two fuckheads up front, trying to wrestle themselves free, so I didn’t have much time to shout at her. I had just about enough time to slap her across the face and tell her to run before the sound of groaning, twisted metal reached me—they were breaking loose. Then Kaitlin was scrambling out of the shattered window beside her, and she was skidding on broken glass and doing as I told her:
running.

Five seconds have passed since then, and so far I’m still pinned on my side of the car. But I’m working on it. There’s more breaking glass, and then the guy who came to escort us from the plane, the one with the long hair, is crouched down beside the window Kaitlin crawled through, staring straight at me. He has a gun in his hand. “Fuck!” he shouts. He doesn’t seem impressed that Kaitlin’s gone. Lifting the gun and aiming it right at me, he loses the safety. “Which way did she go?” he snaps.

I lift my own gun and I shoot. The round should hit him right in the face, but he’s quick, I’ll give him that. He ducks to the left, using the warped frame of the car as a shield. “Mother
fucker!
” he shouts.

“Quit wasting time!” the other one hollers from the driver’s seat. “She went left. Get after her, man!”

I don’t see the guy with the long hair again. I hear him swear, and then the sound of glass crunching under his shoes as he bolts after Kaitlin. She has a clear minute on him now, though. Hopefully that’s enough. Do I care if the spoilt brat dies? Fuck no. She deserves it, I’m sure, but her father, my boss, will be less than happy if I allow her to end up with a bullet between her eyes. And I don’t like displeasing my employer.

“You comfortable back there?” the guy in the front yells. I can just about hear him through the privacy screen, which has somehow not shattered. He and I must be in pretty much the same situation. His chair has driven back, pinning me in place, which probably means something has driven through the front of the car, pinning him, too.

“I’m just grand,” I shout. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t stick around, though.” I can see how I’m going to get out of this mess. I need to twist my body through the narrow gap between where I’m sitting and where Kaitlin was sitting. Problem is, the car’s compressed in such a way that I have to pivot to slide myself through, and to do that I’m gonna need to dislocate my shoulder. Won’t be the first time it’s happened, which means it’ll be slightly easier to accomplish, but it’s still going to hurt like a fucker.

“Why don’t you just stay put, sweetheart? I’d like to have a word, if that’s all right with you?” the guy in the front shouts. I can hear the sarcasm dripping from his voice, combined with the same frustration I’m experiencing right now.

“I guess we’ll just have to see who gets out of here first, huh?” I can’t waste anymore time. I doubt this guy actually does want to talk to me. He’s probably going to run after his friend, but not before executing me, if only to make sure I can’t describe him to the boss. I take a deep breath and begin twisting my body. I manage to slide one arm through the gap and then my head, and then I’ve reached the point where I can’t go any further. How do you prepare yourself for the pain of a dislocated shoulder? Short answer is, you don’t. Especially if you know what’s coming. You take a deep fucking breath, close your eyes tight, and you either do it or you don’t.

I’m a doer. Or more appropriately, I’m a stubborn bitch and I won’t let these two bastards get the better of me. A scream rips from my vocal chords as I pop my joint out of place. The pain is worse than I remember—I think for a second I’m going to throw up—but I don’t have time to stop. If I hesitate, that means he wins. I’m now able to wriggle through the gap, so I kick and scramble my way through until I can heave myself one-handed out of the window. On my back, staring up at the sky, I rotate my arm, take another deep breath and I yank my shoulder back into place.

I might as well have torn the damn thing off. I hiss out a curse word that would make a hardened criminal blush. I’m nearly blind with pain, but it’s time to get up. Time to move. Time to get the hell away from this car. There are people on the bridge, watching on anxiously. Groups of men and women, standing well back, no one rushing forward to help. That’s undoubtedly got something to do with the gun in my hand. Or the gun the long-haired guy was holding before he went charging off after Kaitlin. They all must have heard the shot I fired at him, too.

A tall, blonde woman, fingers pressed to her mouth, looks like she’s about to step forward, but then she steps back instead, horror washing over her face. I know why. It’s because that motherfucker’s climbed out of the car and is standing right behind me. Must be.

I don’t waste time looking. I push myself to my feet, spinning around, raising my gun. He’s standing right behind me, a smug look on his blood-covered face. “You feel like having that chat now, sweetheart?” He smirks, as though he has the upper hand here, even though he isn’t holding a weapon.

I know his type. The type who think female bodyguards exist so they can hand over tampons and keep their ward entertained by gossiping about boys. This guy’s about to find out the hard way that I’m a little different. Cocking my gun, I aim for his right eye. “You can either turn around and hold up your hands, or I can create a sixth hole in your head, asshole. Up to you.”

He looks away, laughing under his breath. The idea of me shooting him seems to be really fucking funny. “You’re gonna shoot me? Here? In front of all these people?”

“You think I’m worried about getting busted by the cops? I’m not.” As if on cue, sirens begin to wail in the distance. It’s going to be hell for their cruisers to get onto the bridge, though, what with the pile-up our accident has caused. I have a little time.

“So, what? You’re just gonna gank me and walk away? You don’t think anyone will stop you?” the guy says. With blood covering his fake driver’s uniform, he looks like something out of a horror film. His eyes are piercing, green, made that much starker by the shock of crimson splashed across his face. I feel like I should know who he is somehow. Like I’ve met him before. The mystery of his identity is hovering at the very edges of my mind. It’ll come to me.
 

Now isn’t the time to be racking my brain over some maybe meeting that took place god knows when, though. Now’s the time to be kicking his ass and leaving as quickly as possible. I have to find that girl before she gets herself into even more trouble. McLaughlin won’t see it as trouble she got herself into. It’ll be trouble
I
got her into, and then subsequently failed to prevent from worsening. That’s how Paddy works. You take ownership for something, you’d better fucking make sure you can take care of it, otherwise he’s coming after you. And he’s not the kind of person to chalk something up to shitty luck or an accident, either. He’ll say that I should have
known
, like
knowing
is a supernatural gift that I must somehow possess.

“Come on,” the guy says. “We need to get out of here before the cops show up. And, sweetheart, if you want to live, you won’t make a fuss about it, okay?”

I want to throat punch this bastard. He comes at me, hands out in front of him like he’s trying to calm a startled deer or something, and I snap. I am not a startled deer. I am the predator that springs the deer and rips its fucking throat out. This poor asshole can’t know that, though. He can’t know about the fourteen years of Krav Maga training I’ve had. He can’t know about the army training I received in my late teens and early twenties. He can’t know about the countless hours and hours I’ve spent at the range, shooting and throwing knives until missing is something I just don’t do anymore.

He finds out pretty quickly, though.

He’s reaching for my gun, like he thinks he’s just going to be able to pluck it straight out of my hands. I wait until he’s within arm’s distance, and then I spin the gun around in my hand, gripping it by the muzzle, and I coldcock him with it right in the face. Blood explodes from his nose, his head kicking back.

The sirens sound closer.

When the guy looks up at me, hands cupped over his nose, his eyes are wide with disbelief. “You’re gonna regret that, sweetheart.”

“I don’t know. I’m feeling pretty good about it.” I shouldn’t be baiting him, but he’s an arrogant prick and I’m pretty sure he’s dead set on killing me once he has me safely out of the public’s eye. Stalking forward, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun. It’s a Berretta, an old one with a scuffed muzzle—clearly he’s used a silencer on it once or twice before. No silencer now, though. He doesn’t seem to notice that we’re surrounded by people anymore. People with horrified expressions on their faces and cell phones in their hands, recording every single step we make. I watch his body, watch the way he moves. I’m trained to do that before I make assumptions about anyone. I come to the conclusion very quickly from the way he holds his gun, the way he holds himself—sure, confident, his weight over the back of his feet—that he’s trained too. The way he steps one foot over the other is a typical army training move that could mean he served or he’s just had the benefit of professional coaching. Either way, I don’t plan on underestimating him.