Drake looked back at Natasha. He let the defeat show in his eyes, in his body. He couldn’t hold it back any longer. As she watched him, Natasha’s eyes glittered with triumph. She had him and she knew it, and she knew he knew it too.
“Let’s just get on with it, then, shall we?” Drake asked. He dropped to his knees next to the frame. He ignored Natasha as he picked up the broken frame. Pulling off the back, Drake removed the paper photo from its safety.
“It’s not that easy, Drakeybo.” Natasha batted her lashes at him. “You see, when Daddy gets angry, he can be pretty scary, and right now, he is really angry and it’s all focused on you.”
Drake could hear the second gun behind him approaching, and he made sure that he kept his shoulders relaxed and defeated. Drake stared down at the photo, the glass and frame in his other hand. “So, what?” Drake asked. “You’re going to make an example of me?”
“Something like that.” The pleasure in Natasha’s voice sent a shudder down Drake’s spine. “Ryan, be a doll and restrain him.”
“With pleasure,” Ryan growled, and Drake could almost feel the man behind him.
Moving with little thought, but with decisive movement, Drake rose high on his knees and threw the broken glass and frame at Natasha. Without waiting to see if the frame hit its mark, Drake spun on his knees and lunged for Ryan’s legs. Catching the man around his knees, Drake felt a moment of surprise and resistance from Ryan before he started to tumble. Drake pushed off with his legs, putting as much force as he could into his tackle. As soon as Ryan was floored, Drake rolled to the side and reached for the gun at his back.
A muted bang of Natasha’s silencer sounded, and Drake dodged to the side as wood splintered in the floor next to him. Drake held his own gun back as he continued to work his way toward the door. He shot behind himself blindly, the sound thundering in the small room. Natasha cursed as Drake shot and rolled, finally landing in the hallway. Flattening himself against the wall, he took a deep breath, gun pointed at the doorway.
The hand holding the photo shook as he clumsily folded it, making sure he kept his gun trained on the open doorway. He cringed inwardly as the paper creased, creating lines in the only memory he had left of his family. Pulling himself from that dark thought, he shoved the photo into his back pocket.
“Really?” Natasha shouted. “Is this really how you want to play it? Get up, you stupid shit! Find him.”
Pulling himself into a crouch, Drake figured his options. The best exit at this point would be through the front door. Since the shooting had started and no other gunned men had come out of the woodwork, Drake figured it was just the three of them in the house. As long as Ryan and Natasha were pinned down in his room, he should have a clear exit. He turned to work his way down the hall, ducking as bullets whizzed past him and into the wall.
Shit.
Firing off another blind shot, Drake ducked behind the first chair he came across in his living room. Eyeing his surroundings, he tried to judge his next move. The door was too far back and out in the open. He could make a run for it, continuing to shoot suppressing fire, but he didn’t know what was outside waiting for him either.
“There isn’t a point in hiding from me, Drakeybo.” The teasing cadence was back in play. “You’re going to die one way or another. You might as well just come out here and let me do it.”
Drake laughed. “I think I would rather give you a challenge if it’s all the same to you. Besides, I thought you wanted to make an example of me.”
Pushing away from the chair, Drake snuck as best he could in a crouch, ducking behind an armchair. He strained to hear any movement so he could detect her or Ryan’s position.
“It’s hardly a challenge. I have men outside waiting to take you, even if you do manage to get past me.”
“I would have been disappointed if you didn’t. But, hell, how I figure it, I got this far, I might as well take a few of you with me.”
Natasha burst with incredulous laughter. “You think you’re good enough to take out Boredega’s men?”
Drake shrugged even though she couldn’t see him. “I could probably at least take out his daughter, and that’s good enough for me.”
“He took what you love, so you’ll take what he loves?” Natasha’s cackle almost echoed through the room. “How clichéd.”
Drake peeked around the chair, looking for any sign of movement. The darkness of the room, while a great shield, didn’t help him. “It’s poetic.”
“It just tells me how little you know about my father.”
Using her talking as a distraction, Drake rolled out from overstuffed armchair and pushed forward toward his leather love seat. He had not anticipated a gunfight when he had decorated this room. It left a lot to be desired in the hide-and-seek department.
“He’s going to take everything from you again. Even your death won’t stop him now. He will kill everyone who ever came close to loving you, including your agent boyfriend. He will do it just because he can.”
Peering up over the arm of the love seat, Drake perched his gun, itching to take a shot. He aimed as she spoke, and when he thought he had her position figured, pulled the trigger.
Her answering cry told him that he’d hit his target, but the angry cursing that followed told him that he hadn’t hit as close to the mark as he had hoped.
“Motherfucker!” Natasha hissed. Then loudly she shouted, “Get the hell in here and do your fucking jobs!”
On the cusp of making a snarky comment, Drake stumbled back as his front door kicked in, showering him in small bits and pieces of wood and plaster. Two men, garbed in military tactical gear, burst in. Their bodies were covered head to toe in black, and the guns they held at the ready weren’t any small handguns.
Drake swore as he pushed back to get as far away from them as possible while still staying out of sight. He needed to get room between them, but the only way out was through the hallway, which was completely exposed.
Drake rechecked his weapon and surveyed his options. He was a sitting duck in his current location. At this position, they could flank him and surround him. His best bet was to get down the hall.
Preparing for his next move, he hyped himself mentally, then with an internal count to three, shot to his feet. Twisting his arm so it was pointed back, he fired at the men as he ran down the hall, which seemed to have grown about three times its length since the last time he’d been down it. He laid down the best cover fire he could with the limited ammunition he had and had almost made it to his spare bedroom door when a searing pain tore through his thigh, instantly dropping him to his knees.
Using the momentum to propel himself onto his back, he shifted and continued to fire, this time aiming for Ryan, who had been able to come out from the opposite side of the black-clad men. Ryan jerked back, but Drake kept firing, letting the bullets hit home, until his gun clicked. As he fired, he shimmied his body back until his foot could reach the edge of the door. Gritting his teeth, he used as much strength as his injured leg would allow him and slammed the door closed.
Bullets continued to burst through the door, creating patterns of holes. Clutching his empty gun, Drake covered his face and rolled into a protective ball as wood splinters rained down. When the shots paused, he clambered to his feet, mindful of his leg, then groped underneath the bed.
“Come on, come on,” he breathed, his hand fishing in the dark space. With a sigh of relief, he pulled a small black bag out and emptied it on the top of the bed. Frenzied, Drake clasped the second clip of ammunition. After switching clips, Drake aimed the gun at the door while backing up toward the window.
Four to one were not great odds, no matter how much firepower he could come up with. If he was lucky, the neighbors had called the police once the shooting started. If he was luckier, the police to get the call weren’t on Boredega’s payroll. If he was unlucky, well, then he just needed to get the fuck out of there. Drake fumbled with the window lock, and he hadn’t realized that he h
ad been bleeding until the blood smearing on the glass made it too slippery to get a good grip on the ledge. Still he managed to pull it up. He was almost through the window, his body contorted at an odd angle, when the door crashed open behind him.
“Stop!” Natasha demanded.
Drake kept moving, his motion only coming to a reluctant stop at the electrifying sound of gun hammer being pulled back. His body reacted on instinct, instantly doing as it was told.
“Turn around, get back here,” she ordered. “Slowly.”
Drake had to struggle with his injured leg to make the turn out of the windowsill but did it, facing her and the two men in black. Natasha stood between the two men, her curly hair in disarray. Her gun pointed at Drake loosely, as if she lacked the strength to hold it up, her free arm staunching the wound on her side.
Even with the blood loss, her presence was powerful. She glided between the two men standing only a few feet from Drake, motioning with her gun.
“Drop your weapon.”
Tilting his head in question, Drake asked, “Why don’t you just kill me?”
Natasha flipped her unruly hair. “I never like to take away from my daddy’s fun. Besides, I still need you to tell me where you put all that money.”
Drake didn’t even attempt to conceal his laugh. “What? Really? You still think that I took the money?”
Glaring daggers, Natasha took a menacing step forward. “Don’t even lie to me. Jacob showed me the account information. Now, tell me how to get the damn money. Now. Drop. Your. Weapon.”
“Wow,” Drake said with a smirk and shifted. He was now sitting on the sill, both feet planted on the floor, the gun held loosely in his hand. The two men flanking Natasha watched him warily as he moved. “Daddy is going to be pissed when he finds out that Jacob was the one who had the money all along.”
Drake finished with a laugh and then pushed off with his feet, propelling himself through the window. For a moment, Drake was in a free fall, and then he landed hard, in the garden of decorative rocks, solidly on his back. The air rushed from his lungs, and Drake saw black on the edges of his vision. He had never been so happy to live on the first story.
“Goddammit!” Natasha screamed from inside as Drake tried to will his body to work.
Not allowing himself the luxury of air, Drake twisted, pulling his knees under him, trying to regain his footing. When he landed, the gun had fallen from his grip, and he swiped it up as he pushed himself to his feet.
He swayed, the blackness tightening in around his vision. Pushing through the fog, Drake stumbled forward, angling toward the trees. Coughing, Drake gasped in gulps of air as his lungs finally decided to work again. He quickened his pace, but a searing burn through his shoulder spun him around and brought him back to his knees.
Natasha, mostly through the window, had her gun aimed toward Drake. Drake didn’t have time to react before her muzzle flashed and shocking heat blazed through his side.
Hissing from the pain but unwilling to let it deter him, Drake used the momentum of the bullet’s impact to swing his other arm around. Pulling the trigger, he fired, fired, fired. Each muzzle flash came and went in short succession. Time seemed to slow, and he was able to follow each bullet on its path. One went wild, the second hit somewhere near her legs, and the third found its home in her torso, moving in with a flash of red.
As Natasha’s figure fell unceremoniously to the ground, Drake didn’t let his gun aim falter. Slowly getting to his feet, he observed her crumpled form. Taking a step closer, Drake watched as Natasha struggled to move. Just as when he had fallen, Natasha’s gun had slipped from her hand and landed almost a foot away from her. She was stretching, reaching for her weapon, but she wouldn’t have time. Drake felt the pull of his face as his lips curled into a cruel smile. Drake aimed the weapon and pulled the trigger.
Chapter 27
THE TASTE of vengeance still fresh on his tongue, Drake turned to make his way into the shadows. There were still two armed men somewhere. He thought they would have exited behind Natasha, but they must have gone out the front and were circling around. He needed to find cover and quick.
As he started toward the trees on the side of the building, the full impact of what he had done hit him in the chest, and he stumbled back as if taking another bullet. Clutching at his ribs, he frantically pulled in deep drags of air, but his racing heart couldn’t be slowed. Light-headed, he fell against the sturdy support of tree, the rough bark scratching along his skin. Putting his hands on his knees, gun still clutched tight, he fought the threatening haze.
He had just killed Boredega’s daughter. He had killed that guy Ryan. He had killed.
Killed. Him. He had.
He killed someone.
No, not just someone, but Boredega’s flesh and blood.
He was finally on his way to vengeance.
But… it didn’t feel as good as he had thought it would feel. Where he had thought he would find satisfaction, glee, and even relief, he found instead shock and disbelief.
He’d never taken a life before. Never directly.
Drake’s lips curled in a sardonic twist. He had made everyone think he was a bad guy, and in the end, he had become one. He was a murderer. He’d started his path to hell, and now he might as well take the quick route.
He’d killed Boredega’s daughter. There was absolutely no turning back now. He’d passed the point of no return going full throttle straight ahead.
Hearing shouting behind him, Drake straightened from his stunned crouch and looked behind him, where the two men were dropping out of the window, guns up.
Shit, he was so done with this.
One of the men stopped at Natasha’s body. The other man watched his six. After confirming that Natasha was good and dead, the men spoke to each other briefly, too far away for Drake to hear. After a few moments, the men started a retreat, moving cautiously back toward the shadows of the building.
Drake didn’t move as the men crept away, just gripped his weapon at his side. Every place his skin made contact against the cool metal of the gun tingled with anticipation. Using the pain of his wounds as a focal point, Drake gathered his adrenaline, using it to prepare himself for whatever might happen next. His panic, fear, and shock pushed aside, he watched the men as they continued their descent into shadow.
Even after the shadows had stilled and the men were gone, Drake couldn’t make himself move. His body, exhausted and still suffering from the symptoms of shock, started to tremble. He didn’t have time to fall apart. Most likely those men were on their way to tell Boredega the news of his daughter’s demise. Once that knowledge was out there, Drake’s life was forfeit. There wasn’t any way he could move about the city without someone working for Boredega spotting him. He needed to act now. If he thought Boredega’s reach was far when all he had done was put a dent in a few of his drug operations, there was nowhere that would be safe for him now.
No, Drake Clane needed to disappear.
Pushing away from the tree, Drake managed to take a few slight steps before his knees buckled. Collapsing onto all fours, Drake realized how shallow and frenetic his breaths were. He forced himself to take in a large lungful of much-needed air, letting it settle deep in his chest. He did it again. And again. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. But even with his breathing under control, his limbs felt leaden and he couldn’t quite lose the dizzy feeling turning in his gut.
Head dropped between his shoulders, Drake noticed a gathering of blood forming at the end of his left arm, pooling around his hand where it lay against another wound in his side. Drake laughed as the blood from both wounds mingled and spread. No wonder he was so weak. Between those two bullet wounds and the one in his leg, he was surprised he wasn’t dead.
So much for his plans. Apparently, Drake Clane was going to disappear, just not in the manner he had been expecting. At least, not yet. He’d thought maybe he would get to take a little bit more of the cartel with him. But he could settle f
or Natasha. At least it all hadn’t been in vain. He’d at least taken something from Boredega that he could never get back.
Maybe now he’d feel the pain, anguish, and rage that Drake had suffered all these years.
Even though he wouldn’t be able to take Boredega out of the playing field, Drake felt better knowing the cops hadn’t given up on trying to demolish the cartel. Sure, it was slow going and nearly impossible to infiltrate, but they were trying, and that’s all that mattered.
Coughing, Drake cringed at the explosion of pain that radiated down his arm. Groaning, he placed the back of his hand against his shoulder wound. The skin around the hole was cold and deadened, numbed from the blood loss. Instead the aching throb traveled throughout his limb, and even his fingers pulsated in rhythmic pain.
How many bullets could a body take and still continue to fight? He was three in, not including the one from his rescue, and he wasn’t sure if he could take any more.
A noise sounding to his right made him jerk and, despite his exhaustion, bring his gun up. He had been pretty certain the men had gone, but it wouldn’t have shocked him if they had played him, making him think it was safe to come out in the open.
It wasn’t until that moment that he saw the flashing lights. They lit the sky in a flurry of colors, dancing through the air.
What do ya know? The cavalry had arrived.
More men in black were circling the area, and Drake kept his gun poised as they zeroed in on him. While he wanted to believe the cops were the good guys and the bad guys were the bad guys, there was no way to be sure these cops weren’t on Boredega’s payroll. Even just one cop on the dark side was enough. He could just as soon be shot trying to “flee” as he could be arrested and tossed in the back of a squad car.
Anxious shouts of “drop the weapon” filled the air, but Drake ignored them, searching the surrounding flock for a familiar face. Anyone he could trust.
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