Chimera (The Korsak Brothers #1)(49)



I don’t know what Jericho expected would happen. I didn’t even know what I expected, not really. But I knew what I hoped, and Michael didn’t let that hope die. He didn’t let me down.

He ran.

It diverted Jericho’s attention for the briefest second. I saw the flicker of disbelief cross the spare profile. Although Michael had refused to go to him days ago in the van, he still expected the boy to obey him. He couldn’t believe that all the manipulation and all the training hadn’t tamed Michael’s inner core. He simply couldn’t believe it. And when I shot him . . .

He believed that even less.

I wasn’t able to lift my hand to fire. He would’ve seen the movement even before I made it. So I didn’t move the hand; it wasn’t necessary. My finger was enough. At that angle the best shot I could make was his leg. Crimson spurted from his shin and there was the flash of pearly white bone as he screamed. Hoarse, deep, and full of fury, it was the cry of a wounded predator. I’d watched enough Discovery Channel to know that only made him less predictable and a damn sight more dangerous.

Grabbing the door handle behind me, I lurched to a crouch. His gun was still pointed at me and I could see him pushing aside the waves of agony to focus on his target. I found mine first.

Gutshot isn’t the best way to go. The pain of a torn stomach leaking flesh-searing bile doesn’t begin to cover it. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. For Jericho, however, I wished I had the time to send another slug in there to keep the first company. The close wail of approaching sirens told me that while it was a pleasant thought, it might not be practical. I had to get out of there . . . in one goddamn hurry.

The second time I’d shot him, Jericho had fallen onto his back. This time he had lost his gun, using his hand to try to stem the blood oozing from his stomach. The frozen stare had turned into one glossy with hate. Words, sharp and grating, were pushed painfully between clenched teeth. “I’ll . . . kill you.” Sucking in a breath, he closed his eyes and grinned with all the warmth of a toothy skull. “And if . . . I don’t . . . Michael will.”

Then again, how long did it take to pull a trigger?

The tackle of a speeding whirlwind made the question moot. Michael hadn’t run quite the distance I’d hoped. Arm wrapped tight around my waist, he dragged me along with a strength I wouldn’t have believed was in his slim frame. I was still tempted to take another shot at Jericho . . . the last shot, but as it was, I was lucky to stay upright even with my brother’s help. The bullet wound in my side was taking a backseat to the throbbing in my head. From the dizziness, nausea, foggy vision, it was safe to say I’d bought myself a pretty good concussion when my head had hit that car door. The simultaneous desire to puke and lie on the ground to die wasn’t too helpful in keeping my eyes open for Jericho’s flunkies, but I gave it my best shot. As we moved, from behind I could hear a choked, ugly laughter. Jericho was laughing. Through an agony that should’ve killed anything more coherent than a scream, the son of a bitch was laughing.

The sound was unnaturally chilling, the throaty cackle of a hyena muzzle deep in warm entrails. Trying to block it out, I picked up the pace as best as I could. “I told you to run,” I grunted. “If you think that’s running, you can kiss a track scholarship good-bye.”

“I guess I’ll have to depend on my brain, not my legs.” His breath was fast but even against my jaw. “And I did run—just not very far.”

“Kids these days.” I could see our car. It was barely fifteen feet away. As far as I was concerned, it may as well have been fifteen miles. “They never listen.” My legs buckled as the muscles went from rubber to water. How Michael kept me upright I didn’t know. I had to outweigh him by a good fifty pounds. Add one-twenty to that and deadweight became a very real concept to a skinny teenage boy.

Savagely biting my bottom lip to the salty taste of copper, I straightened and ordered legs I couldn’t feel to move faster. No one was more surprised than I that they actually obeyed. As we fell against the driver’s door, I was already digging in my jacket pocket for the spare key I’d found tucked under the sun visor. Pulling it free, I tried to ram it into the lock. It was more difficult than it seemed as twin images spun lazily before my eyes. Double vision is less fun when it’s minus the alcohol.

Michael snatched the key from my hand and slid it home. Flinging open the door, he stretched a hand to unlock the rear before trying to shove me into the backseat. I grabbed the edge of the door frame and resisted with a growl. “What the hell are you doing?” Icy sweat beaded my forehead and I swallowed convulsively. “You’re all about the theory, remember?” I slurred. “You can’t drive us out of here.”

“Yes, I can.” The next push was more forceful, not to mention more successful. I lost my grip and tumbled in. “I’ve been watching you.”

Oddly enough, I didn’t find much comfort in that. And I knew of a driving instructor whose leg still ached in rainy weather and who would probably agree wholeheartedly with me. Slamming my door shut, he climbed into the driver’s seat. Two seconds later we were hopping curbs with the rest of the rabbits. Monkey see, monkey do might not be the best learning tool out there, but at least we were in motion. I couldn’t guarantee the result would have been the same if I’d been behind the wheel.

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