Chasing Impossible (Pushing the Limits, #5)(18)

Linus remains blizzard cold and my insides sink. “What’s going on?”

“I know you pegged the narc and I know you haven’t sold. I know you came here because you thought this was neutral territory and it was safe. I know because I’ve been watching you f*ck around all night.”

I quit breathing. “Why?”

Linus leans into me. “Because Ricky knows you don’t listen and we’ve got shit going down. Empires are going to war, and in the morning, we’ll see who’s still standing, and Ricky wants you on the rise up.”

I scan Linus’s face, desperate to read him, but he’s closed off. Always closed off—just like my father was. “Eric didn’t start this war, did he?”

“Eric’s weak and he’s ripe for the taking, but he will try to make us bleed on the way down, taking out as many of our key players as possible.”

My stomach cramps. “I’m not a key player.”

“You’re Mozart’s daughter. You could be a crap game piece and you’d still be worth the kill just to piss us off, but besides that—you’re good at this. Shit—you pegged a narc my top guys haven’t sniffed out yet. Except for tonight, you’re smart and what the f*ck were you doing tonight?”

I refuse to shrink from Linus. As much as he tries to act like it, he’s not my father. “I was hanging with friends.”

Linus appears to grow in size. Let him. He could become the boogeyman and I’d still flip him off. Spit flies out of his mouth as he announces, “We. Don’t. Have. Friends.”

But I do. My phone buzzes continuously in Linus’s hand. It’s Logan and he’s scared for me. My heart beats hard as I realize how scared I am for him. I’m in the middle of a war and he could be caught in the cross fire. That fear—it’s why I shouldn’t have friends.

Rule number two: attachments create weakness and your enemies and allies will use your weakness against you.

A clank of a glass bottle and the sound of it rolling echoes off the walls of the alley. Linus extracts a gun from the back of his jeans and he nods his chin for me to do the same. I extract my switchblade, flick it until we see the fun shiny part and Linus grimaces. “Fucking grow up already and get a real weapon.”

I won’t carry a gun. I’ll sell pot, but I have no interest in killing.

“Stay here until I come for you and, in case you’re wondering, that is an order I mean word for word.” He slips my phone back to me. “Text your friend. Tell him to f*ck off and hope he does. It ain’t my job to save him. It’s barely my job to save you.”

He’s right, it’s not, but he made a promise to my father and I’d wager he’s regretting that oath. Linus heads back the way we came and I lean against the warm concrete of the building, permitting my head to hit the wall harder than necessary.

I strain to hear Linus in the silent alley. Strain to hear anyone or anything. Strain, but all I hear is my pulse pounding in my temples. My blood tingles with fear. I hate fear. I hate what I can’t control.

Two shots. Loud. Angry. My body flinches. Two more shots and nausea eats me alive. Everyone thinks I’m big, bad and tough, but the sweat that breaks out on the hand holding the switchblade tells a different story.

I study my surroundings and a lump forms in my throat as I readjust my hold on the blade. I’m trapped—surrounded by three walls, and I exhale to steady my nerves. Calm the f*ck down, Abby. Rule number seven: nerves create more problems than the ones you currently have. Learn how to become ice.

I often wish number seven came with an instructional video.

Calming thought: Linus is here. But so is Eric and his crew. If Linus is here, then so are possibly more people loyal to Ricky, but I’m a pawn on the chessboard and pawns are typically the first ones sacrificed.

My phone buzzes again and Logan’s face appears on the screen. I should ignore it. I should text him. I should do a million things, but my hands shake and this sickening fear snakes along my veins.

I don’t want to die. Another breath out. I don’t want to die tonight.

I slide down the wall, caving into a crouch, and accept his call. “Logan?”

“Where are you?” His voice is tight, yet there’s a hint of relief. “There’s all sorts of shit going on. Shots fired. People are running. Screaming to get off the streets. Tell me where you are.”

“Go home,” I whisper. “Stay in your truck and go home now.”

“Not without you.”

My head drops forward. “This isn’t a f*cking game. My world is going to hell and you need to leave.”

More shots and a man yells out in agony. He begs. For his life. Asking for whoever not to do it. Says he has a brother. He has a mother. He says please. He says it a lot. He says it like he’s a scared child. He says it like he means it and tears prick my eyes. I can imagine him—on his knees, his body trembling, staring up at Linus.

Probably a lot like me when I collapsed on the ground when I was younger begging God for my world not to be destroyed. How old is he? How old am I? My throat tightens, and my lower lip quivers. This is real. Too real. “Go home, Logan. Go home now.”

“Jesus, Abby. Where are you?”

I’m trapped. Bile sloshes in my stomach, and I breathe out hard as I try for cool and calm. “Too far away.”