Page 33 of Forbidden Eyes
“All the fucking way to the car,” I demand, eyes flicking around at the guards who are arriving around us.
Her hand slides into mine, her body creeping closer with each step we take. Good—perhaps if she stays close, I can at least take a bullet for her and she can run again if necessary. She won’t make it far, but I know her; she’ll try. I squeeze the trigger and raise it up to Anchov’s head, making sure these fucks know I’m serious until we eventually reach the gates and they slide back to let us out. He stalls, unsure where to go, and looks at me for direction.
“Dirt track off the main drive. Make them back the fuck off before I forget my manners.” Fucking seniority. If I didn't have Quinn above me and Cane to think about over my own thoughts, I would kill him for this.
Whatever signal he gives them makes them wait at the gate, their guns behind their backs rather than aimed at us. He chuckles and walks onwards again; his feet crunching polished shoes through the dirt and grit she’s been running though in bare feet. I glance down at them hurrying beside me, frowning at the look of them bloodied up, and then remember the cuts on her neck. My finger squeezes again, part of me ready to pull and run for it. Asshole. But then the car arrives in my line of sight.
He stops and turns to look at me. Silence. It might be an act of respect, him not trying to talk me out of shooting him where he damn well stands. He probably knows me too well; understands the way I work even if he doesn’t follow the same protocols. He’s held up his end of this bargain, and he knows I will, too.
I scan the area and unlock the car, pushing Fia’s body around me to get her in the car. She scuttles over, glaring at Anchov the whole fucking way, and then slams the door behind her.
“Go now. No one will track you from here. It’s done,” he eventually says.
I drop my gun and look at him, backing up to the car.
“This was stupid, Anchov. Unnecessary.”
“You killed my son. That, too, was unnecessary, Carter.” He smiles, but it’s laced with revenge regardless of his easy nature at the moment.
“Your son was a stupid fuck. No one pisses on Vico.” My hand opens the driver’s door, my eyes still directed at his. He wants vengeance, he can bring that shit at me at some point in the future. For now, this part is done. “No one pisses on me, either. Remember that. I’m not all Cane, and I’m not all that concerned with orders either.”
He nods.
I nod.
Done.
Ten
Even though we’re in the car, my skin still creeps with nerves, and my eyes are set on the wing mirror to see if we really are free. No one’s following us, and the rushing ground beneath us begins to build a feeling of safety in me again. He’s here next to me, barely talking, but he came for me, rescued me.
“You can relax now,” he mutters, his hand gripping the wheel so tightly I think he’ll rip it off. I look at him, watching as he tries to wipe the dried blood from his face.
“Are we going to the hospital?”
“No. We’ll get you cleaned up, though. Don’t worry.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and force the tears back before more slide from my eyes. I did enough crying back there. I’m not doing any more.
“Where are we going then?”
He doesn’t answer me, just keeps his eyes in front as he drives. His jaw is rigid, and his hands keep tensing around the steering wheel. The action opens up his scratched, bloodied knuckles, making his appearance match his suit, which is torn and blood stained. I wonder how many more people died because of him, aside from the eight I counted at that place, but this time I’m not so concerned. If he hadn’t rescued me, it might have been my throat that was slit.
Silence lingers in the car and at no point does he shift his blank stare from the road in front of us. No matter how hard I watch his profile, he just seems to focus on the road like nothing's happened.
After twenty minutes, I start to realise we aren’t going back to the hotel. I keep my gaze out the window rather than let my eyes slip back to look at Carter. It’s not doing any good watching him; he doesn’t seem to want to look at me or answer my questions. The evil smile of the man who cut me before he pressed the blade against my skin creeps into my mind, followed by the image of Carter raising his gun and shooting him dead. And the others. The image of someone's last breath leaving their throat as he ripped a blade across it—the guy I saw bleeding out on the stairs when we left. Memories invade and chill me to the bone. I’m sitting next to a killer. That concept would have been alien to me a few days ago. Now?
He killed people. Cleanly. Effortlessly.
My mind gets lost in mazes of what-ifs and could-have-beens, going back and forth over the evening, how Carter reacted, how I reacted, if I’m shocked at what he did, or stunned, if I’m having a post-traumatic episode—the calm before I go crazy.
Tears prick at the back of my eyes again, but I suck them in. I won’t break now, not in front of Carter.
“What happens now?” My voice is soft, almost defeated, but I can’t take the silence anymore, or the questions swirling inside me.
“Nothing.”
“You can’t be serious? The deal? All those men. That estate—who was that?”