Chapter Eighteen
Sebastian Shaw
Maratova shoved his hand right into my face, his palm cupping my chin and forcing my head backward. In reply I punched deep into his gut, regretting it as my knuckles bashed up against the hard weave of his body armor.
Maratova brought his other arm around, gun still in his hand, and smashed it against my left temple.
Though the blow was hard, this stabbing pain shooting across my brow, I didn’t let go of him. I managed to grab a hand over his elbow, yanking it back, the gun falling from his grip and clattering across the ground.
Jesus Christ, it was dark in here; the only thing I could know for sure was that Maratova was on the floor with me and he was murderously angry.
He brought up his leg, kicking it into my knee, the tread of his boot dragging across my flesh. It hurt like hell, but I rolled back, regrouping and throwing myself back at him.
I managed to land a punch to his jaw. Though it was hard and solid, it didn’t knock him out, but it did make a crack.
Maratova redoubled his efforts, kicked at me again, and landed a blow right in my gut. It sent me slamming backward, and he jumped on top of me, hands around my throat. Choking, spluttering, unable to suck in a breath, I brought my hands up and tried to push him off. I was losing energy, losing strength, and as I grabbed his hands, I began to black out.
I didn’t even have time to think it was over; my brain was too starved of oxygen to bother.
There was a sudden loud crack, and Maratova fell backward.
The instant his hands fell away from my throat I sucked in several choked breaths, staving off the unconsciousness that had almost claimed me.
Dizzy and only barely aware of my surroundings, I saw someone standing over Maratova, something heavy and dark in their hands. They had obviously hit him over the head, and in doing so had saved my life.
The person dropped to their knees right beside me. In a sudden and erratic slice of light that filtered in through one of the windows behind me, I saw Amanda.
“Sebastian? Sebastian?”
I couldn’t answer; I could hardly breathe. I was only holding onto consciousness, staving off the blackness looming at the edges of my vision. I was choking and coughing hard, throat wheezing as I tried to suck in breath after breath.
Amanda leaned over me, grabbing both my shoulders, and in another flash of light I saw the expression on her face. Her brow was pulled up, her eyebrows peaked in the middle, her lips open wide, her cheek slack. She was worried, she was worried about me.
“God, are you alright, are you okay?” she asked, words jumbled together.
After I managed to suck in enough breath, the darkness at the edges of my vision subsided, and I managed to push myself up.
Amanda put a hand on my shoulder to steady me. “Are you okay?”
It was obvious I wasn’t okay; I had almost been choked to death by the world’s greatest psychopath. But I managed to nod my head in a complete lie.
“Are you okay?” I asked her, my throat so growly and croaky I sounded as though I was recovering from a week-long cold.
She nodded vehemently. Obviously it was also another lie, as I doubted she could be that okay considering the day she’d had. But her enthusiasm counted for something.
I sat on my own, still panting, but not about to lose consciousness anytime soon. I rubbed my throat, as if to convince myself it was still there and wasn’t the crumpled mess it would have been if Amanda hadn’t clocked Maratova on the head in time.
I let out a heavy sigh and managed to push myself to my feet. Amanda was there every step of the way, hovering next to me like a protective mother hen. Though her movement was distracting and made me smile, I turned my head to that dark shadow of Maratova on the floor.
I didn’t like to kill people; it was illegal for a very good reason. Murder was abhorrent. Killing could only ever be the last option after you’d exhausted every other means to solve a solution. That being said, in that instant I still felt the desire to reach around to the gun still tucked into the back of my pants and shoot Maratova.
He was a monster, fuck it, he was a monster.
The feeling passed. It was obvious he wasn’t going to get up anytime soon; Amanda had done a sterling job in knocking him out.
I still pulled my gun out though.
Gun in one hand, I dropped beside Maratova, pressing my fingers into the side of his throat, trying to get a pulse. He had one alright; the big brute wasn’t dead.
“Let’s go,” I called over to Amanda.
“Where?” she asked. “Is everything fine? Are all the criminals gone? Is the army here?”
When she wanted to, Amanda could ask several million questions at once. She could bombard you like a machine gun. But in her position, I would be asking questions too.
“No, they are still downstairs, and this is still a bad situation,” I said truthfully.
She gave a nod. “How do we—”
“Get out of here. A miracle,” I shrugged, “And if that doesn’t work, we find a nice place to hide, and we wait it out.”
With the amount of firepower gunning it out downstairs and outside, I didn’t think I could safely shepherd Amanda out of the house.
I nodded toward the open attic door.
It had been a stroke of luck finding Amanda in time.
Jesus Christ, I would never forget the rush of blood to my head as I saw the ladder leading to the attic, and heard the thumps and shouts from above.
“Where should we go?” Amanda asked by my side.
I had no idea; this was her house. Or, technically her great-uncle’s estate, as I had no doubt that Imelda Stanton would sell this place off as soon as all the junk was cleared from it.
As I motioned Amanda to the attic door, I heard footsteps on the floor below. Heavy footsteps, followed by fairly gruff shouts, the kind of gruff shouts that told me the shouters were not the sodding army, because nobody that trained would give away their position so easily.
I silently mouthed a litany of swear words and shook my head in desperation as I grabbed Amanda’s hand.
I pulled her away from the trapdoor and down to the other end of the attic.
I heard a shout from downstairs, fancied I even picked up several words, among them ‘attic’ and ‘Maratova.’
Right at the other end of the long attic sat an array of furniture lined up against the wall. We made our way to it just in time as I heard Maratova’s men begin to climb the ladder.
I searched for a good hiding place, but before I could find one, Amanda began tugging my hand, pointing in the dark to a heavy chest of drawers off to my side. I couldn’t see anything, but I let her pull me along until we made it to the chest of drawers. It was in the corner, one of the only windows in the attic above it, one of the long walls of the house on its other side. When I reached it, I realized there was a considerable gap behind it.
I let Amanda go in first, and she dropped to her knees, breaking my grip as she squeezed into the gap. With a final look at the rest of the attic, briefly spying several dark shadows as they popped their heads up from the floor below, I crouched and followed Amanda.
Though I tried to keep my hearing trained on the steps of Maratova’s men, I couldn’t filter out Amanda’s breathing. It was heavy, stark, and with my arm pressed up against hers, I could feel her body shake every time she inhaled and exhaled. It wasn’t even that loud, and she had a hand clasped over her mouth, but for some reason, I couldn’t help but give it my full attention.
Jesus Christ, what had I put this woman through?
As we huddled in the corner, our sides pressed together, sharing the pressured silence, waiting for whatever would happen next, I kept a firm grip on my gun. My guess was there were no more than three of Maratova’s men in the attic with us, and I couldn’t hear any more on the level below. That being said, the sound of the storm outside had intensified, the roar of the wind punctuated with the sound of driving rain.
There was a flash and a resounding clap of thunder. The flash was powerful and lit up the attic. Something caught my attention. There was something written on the back of the chest of drawers. A large 12 was painted on the back in black ink. It was curious, the exact curve and shape of the number drawn with a careful artistic hand, and not the usual scribble you would expect if the 12 had been left over from a showroom or clearinghouse.
I didn’t have time to wonder what it truly meant, because I heard the not-so-welcome sound of several footsteps nearing us. There was also the sound of low, hushed voices. I could swear they were talking about Maratova. Obviously they’d found him, and if they had found him, I didn’t doubt they could find us too. These weren’t idiots we were dealing with; these were highly-trained freekin’ criminals. They would realize a man like Maratova wouldn’t trip over in an attic in the dark and knock himself on the head.
Though I still couldn’t make out their exact words, I could appreciate the sudden tone and shift in their voices.
Oh fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Had Maratova woken up? There were grunts, followed by what I could recognize as swear words, and some low growling. Nobody growled like Maratova, not even a cornered lion.
Though Amanda was trying her hardest to hide her breathing, both her hands clutched over her mouth, I could still hear it. God dammit, it seemed to echo through the room, mine joining with hers, as if we were screaming to Maratova and his men where to find us.
There was another flash of light and an enormous clap of thunder, the storm now in full swing.
I redoubled my grip on the gun, convincing myself I could at least take out Maratova and maybe one other guy before I was shot myself.
I squeezed my eyes closed, and in a snap opened them again, ready for what I knew would come next.
Trouble and Treasure (#1, Trouble and Treasure Series) Page 18