Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(32)

They walked out onto the landing, and he took her hand.

She fought the warmth unfurling in her chest as she trailed him down the shabby, narrow staircase. This was so wrong, so foolish. She had to sharpen up. Her teeth clenched so hard, pain shot up her jaw.

Bruno sensed it and glanced back at her. “You OK?”

She manufactured a smile for him. “Yeah. Sure.”

He frowned, worried, as he shoved his shoulder against the outside door. He stepped out backward, opening his mouth to speak.

She saw the SUV, door gaping. The dark figures, leaping at them.





8





Bruno was about to ask where her car was parked when she shoved him sharply to one side, and thunk, a baton thwacked down on her shoulder instead of his skull. Lily’s leg whipped right up in a quick front kick. The guy swerved to evade it, snagged her leg. Her shoe flew off. She was yanked off her feet. Went down flailing.

Three attackers. Bruno blocked a punch, a kick, snagged an arm that held another baton, wrenching the attacker sideways with an arm twist. Had to let go, stumble back, block rapid-fire blows to his head and neck from the other guy. He got in a kick to the knee, spun to block the baton slashing toward his face from the other direction, but it caught him, a stinging blow that glanced off his temple. He caught the club, twirled, twisted, seized the arm. Pitched the guy forward and accompanied him in his short, hard flight, right into the brick wall.

A wet, nasty crunch, and he lay still.

The other guy was on top of Lily. The baton flashed down. She blocked with her elbow and fought madly, pale bare legs flailing wildly in the air. He dropped his guard to lure the third guy closer in, swerving to avoid a kick. Launched himself and put the first two knuckles of his right hand right through the guy’s larynx. Turned before the prick even hit the ground to lunge for the guy on Lily. Got his arm around the bastard’s neck, whipping his own face to the side to avoid getting popped. Wrench and twist. Crack. The man went limp.

Bruno flung him off Lily. The guy landed with a limp, heavy flop. Face toward them, mouth slack. Eyes empty.

Lily stared up, mouth wide, dragging in squeaking gasps. Her eyes glittered with terror. Her face was spattered with blood, which gave him a gut-wrenching scare until he moved and sprayed another shower all over her pale coat. His blood, not hers. He was leaking. His forehead.

He thudded down onto his knees, then onto his ass, legs splayed awkwardly beneath him. Trembln>

Holy f*ck. He looked at the throat-smashed guy. At the guy he’d flung into the wall. Skull caved in, wide-open eyes full of blood.

Three dead guys. He had killed them in little over a minute. The shaking deepened, spread. Someone’s bowels had opened. It stank.

He was a good fighter. Kev had seen to that. Lethal, many people had said, and he’d gotten off on the description, swaggering butthead that he was. Like it was a compliment. Lethal. How cool, right? Sexy.

Hah. He’d never considered the real meaning of the word. The description was literal now. It didn’t feel cool or sexy. Holy. Fuck.

He’d never killed before. Or maybe he had, in that fire fight at Aaro’s lair on the day of the zombie masters massacre. But spraying bullets from an Uzi into the woods was different than feeling bones crunch beneath your hands.

Self-defense. Not just his own. They would have killed Lily. Or would they? Strange, that they’d used clubs. Guns or knives would have been quicker. If the attackers had meant to kill them.

It hit him, full force. Oh, shit, no. He lurched away from Lily, lost the contents of his stomach. Coffee, rice pudding, banana cream pie, spattering all over a couple of fresh corpses. The heaves went on and on.

“. . . have to go! Now!” Lily shook his shoulder. “Bruno!”

He spat the foul taste out of his mouth as best he could, wiped his shaking mouth on his jacket sleeve. He looked up at her, blank. Her words made no sense. “What? Go where?”

“Anywhere!” She grabbed his shoulder, shook it. “Come on!”

He hung on to himself, struggling for clarity. “Lily,” he said, slowly and carefully. “Those guys are dead.”

“Yeah! And we’re not! So come on!”

He lifted his hand. “There are dead guys lying in the alley,” he said. “I killed them. Killing people is frowned upon. It needs to be carefully explained. It’s a crime, remember? Punishable by years in prison, at the very least? You with me here?”

“But it’s not your fault! You were attacked! So let’s—”

“The police will not know that unless I tell them,” he went on grimly. “And you’re going to have to tell them, too. Multiple times, until our brains are fried. And the forensics techs who analyze the scene will tell them. And our teams of lawyers will tell them. It’s a long, tedious process, and it takes months, if not years, but there’s no shortcut.”

“We don’t have time for that!” she wailed. She sank to her knees beside him. “Please, Bruno! We have to run.”

“I’ve got no reason to run.” He dug into his pocket, was almost surprised to find his cell still inside. He started punching numbers.

Lily grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?”

“Calling the cops, of course.”

Lily grabbed his phone, hurled it against the brick wall. It shattered, plastic and metal exploding and joining with the rest of the debris. He stared, mouth agape. “What the f*ck . . . ?”