Fine Make

Finn stays quiet after that, but his glare is all attitude and wounded pride. He rubs his cheek and mutters something under his breath that sounds like cursing in three different languages.

I turn back to Knox, whose attention hasn't wavered from the pallets where Mateo is still hiding.

Knox's men are scattered around the room, some standing and breathing hard, some slumped against walls or columns, all injured or catching their breath or both. They are all waiting, looking to Knox for direction.

Mateo is still alive. Still crouched behind that barricade of his. I can see part of his shadow through a gap in the pallets and can hear his labored breathing. And Knox seems to get weaker every passing moment.

"We need to get you to a hospital," I whisper, pressing harder against his wound. The blood keeps coming, seeping through my fingers no matter how much pressure I apply.

"No hospital," Knox says. "My men will patch me up. Besides, I promised you the honor, remember?"

He slides his gun into my hand.

"Mateo has run out of bullets. Now, it's your turn to be generous and lend him some. Stick them right in his chest."

"1"

"Just like I showed you," he continues, his eyes never leaving the pallets. "Don't hesitate. Don't look at his face if you can help it. Just pull the trigger and make it count."

My fingers tighten around the grip.

Knox speaks again, louder this time. "It's over, Mateo. Time to come out."

Mateo doesn't show, neither does he say a word.

"I know you're hurt," Knox continues, his tone almost conversational. "I know you're bleeding. Make this easy on yourself."

Still nothing.

"Shoot the box," Knox tells me, nodding toward the pallets.

I raise the gun and aim at the largest box I can see. Then I pull the trigger.

The shot hits the cardboard with a satisfying thunk, and Mateo swears loudly, a string of profanity that would make a sailor blush.

"Hold your fire!” he yells. "I'm coming out! Don't shoot!"

Slowly, he rises from behind his makeshift fortress. His hands are behind his back in a gesture that looks almost sheepish. His legs are unsteady, wobbling without his cane.

"Show your hands," Knox commands. "Both of them. Now."

"Okay. Okay." Mateo raises his right hand. The tiny silver handgun he used to shoot Knox falls from his fingers and clatters to the floor.

He starts to lift his other hand, and before I can see what's in it, Knox lunges.

Not at Mateo.

At me.

Knox's body slams into mine, knocking me backward.

The grenade hits the floor and explodes.

It's loud. One second, I'm standing there holding a gun that feels too heavy in my hands, and the next, the world shatters into a million razor-sharp pieces.

The pressure knocks the breath out of my lungs. It's just... pain. Pure, undiluted agony. And ringing. My ears feel like they've been stuffed with cotton soaked in gasoline and set on fire at the same time.

Everything goes white, then gray, then a muddy brown that might be blood or dirt or both.

I don't know how long I lie there. Could be seconds. Could be minutes. Could be hours for all I know. Time doesn't seem to work the same way anymore. The dust is as thick as fog, coating my lips, my eyes, the inside of my mouth until I can barely breathe without choking. It tastes like concrete and twisted metal and something that might be fire or fear.

Knox is lying on top of me like a human blanket, his body a shield between me and whatever hell just broke loose in this basement.

He's not moving.

"Knox," I say. It comes out hoarse. "Knox!"

Still nothing.

I push at him, hands trembling, smearing dust and blood across his shirt. He groans. It's the sound of someone fighting their way back to consciousness through layers of hurt. I never imagined that such a sound could be this relieving to my ears.

"Oh, God," I whisper, and I start crying before I realize it's happening. "You're alive. You're alive. Thank God, you're alive."

His face is pressed against my neck, and when he shifts to roll slightly off me, I see the blood.

It's everywhere.

Smeared across his side. Down his back. Soaking into the back of his shirt like ink

in water. And there are tiny dark bits poking through. Shrapnel. Pieces of the grenade are embedded in his skin.

I gasp. "No, no, no. Oh my God, Knox."

He blinks at me, slow and groggy. His lips move, but I can't make out what he's

saying over the ringing in my ears.

I lean in, pressing my ear to his lips.

"...hurts," he breathes.

"I know," I say, choking out the words around the lump in my throat. "I know it does. Just hold on, okay? Hold on. Don't you dare leave me. Help! Someone help!"

There's movement around us now, figures emerging from the dust and debris like ghosts.

Knox's men.

Two of them crouch beside us, their hands gentle but sure as they carefully ease him off me. I don't want to let go. My hands are still gripping his shirt, like if I hold on tight enough, I can keep him alive by sheer force of will.

But one of the men speaks-Mud, I think, though his voice sounds like it's coming from underwater. "We've got him, Sloane. You're okay. He's okay."

I let go, barely. My fingers twitch and clutch at empty air as they lift Knox with practiced care and start carrying him toward the stairs. The others are emerging from their

hiding places now, looking like

survivors of some terrible disaster, which I guess we are. Hunter, Soraya, Serena, Finn Serena's being supported on either side by Soraya and Hunter.

Her arms are draped around both their shoulders, her injured leg lifted off the ground. She looks like hell. We all do. Like we've been put through a blender and somehow came out the other side still breathing.

"We need to leave. Right now," Mud says. He gestures to the rest of the men— those not helping with Knox. "Clean it up. Everything. Before someone calls the cops."

Hunter, Soraya, Serena, and Finn follow behind the people carrying Knox up the stairs. I start to push myself to my feet, and Mud is suddenly beside me, helping me up as my head spins.

"You hit your head," he says, studying my face.noveldrama

"Yeah, well, a grenade went off."

I try to focus on his face, try to make the world stop tilting sideways. My knees

wobble like a newborn foal's, but I stay upright.

As we move toward the stairs, stepping carefully over debris and bloodstains, I glance over my shoulder and stop dead in my tracks.

Mateo.

He's still there.

Lying on the floor in a spreading pool of his own blood, body twisted at angles that don't look quite

human anymore but not quite dead. His chest rises and falls in labored

breaths. Guess his own

renade got him. Yet somehow, somehow, against all odds, he's still breathing.

let

He should be dead. He was closest to the grenade and should have died in the explosion. But no. He's still hanging on, still clinging to life. That bastard just wont die I swear after everything he's survived-those years of torture, the camps, the Russians—it's like he learned how to slip past death on instinct. But not this time. Not if I have anything to do

with it.

My eyes scan the floor, hunting through the debris. I spot it, Knox's gun, lying not

far from where we were when the world exploded. I pick it up.