Right Through Me (The Obsidian Files #1)(82)

“Tighter,” the man barked. “I want it to hurt. Now the feet.”

Caro kneeled and struggled at his ankles with the zip tie until the guy was satisfied.

The guy pulled her roughly back against himself, his arm pressing down on her throat, the gun pressed to her temple. Noah turned his head.

“So?” Noah asked. “How about that forty million? Do we have a deal?”

“I didn’t say that you could look at me, dickhead. I should just give you to Mark as a bonus. Bet he’d be happy to have you to play with.”

“Put the gun down,” Noah coaxed. “I’m restrained, and she’s harmless.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” the man replied.

“We need her alive and functioning,” Noah insisted.

“You keep saying that.”

“Look at her,” Noah said. “She’s a basket case. The gun is overkill.”

“Yeah,” the other guy said, with a harsh laugh. “Right. Funny.”

“She’ll do whatever you say. Right?” Noah looked at Caro.

She drew in a hitching breath. “Yes,” she whispered, through bluish lips.

“See?” Noah said. “She’ll cooperate. I’m restrained. She and I both want to live. And all of us want that money.”

Caro nodded.

Slowly, the guy lifted the gun barrel from her head.

Noah snapped the zip tie effortlessly and sprang up, twisting in the air. “Dive!” he yelled.

Caro hit the ground. Mark’s thug opened fire. Bullets whizzed past Noah’s cheek, but he evaded them, with his combat reflexes and his AVP. One barely clipped his ear. Others pocked the walls.

He landed, slamming the man to the ground. The guy’s gun skittered under the bed. He rammed his knee up toward Noah’s groin.

Noah twisted to protect himself as the guy snatched up the bloodied knife he’d dropped on the floor earlier. He whipped it up.

Noah blocked the stabbing blow to his face, but his opponent’s blade sliced through his sleeve and carved a gash in his arm. Noah yanked the knife from his pants pocket. With a yell, drove the notched blade down through his opponent’s hand, pinning it to the floor.

The knife bit deep into the damp plywood.

The guy screamed, convulsing. Blood spread beneath his hand. He stabbed at Noah with his knife, but his wild, slashing strokes didn’t reach, not with his other hand pinned to the ground.

Noah snagged the man’s knife hand, torqued it . . . and crushed it. The knife fell.

Noah straddled the guy. That f*ckhead had hit Caro. Cut her. Now he paid.

He started in on the guy’s face. Then his ribs. Instinct and training took over, and he let it roar on through him like a flash flood—

. . . Noah . . . Noah! Stop! It’s enough! Stop it, goddamnit!

The words came from faraway. Caro’s voice. He fought his way back.

Those strange, rhythmic rasps were his own panting breaths. His throat was raw. He had a vague memory of screaming.

He stared down at the broken, unrecognizable man beneath him. Mark’s bald, goateed thug was a gory mess. Blood gushed from his nose, his jaw was askew, his eye socket was crushed, trapping his eyelid so that it could not blink. His other eye watered, rolling frantically.

His own knuckles looked like raw meat.

“Noah?” Caro’s voice was barely a whisper. “Are you OK?”

He nodded, struggling off the guy. Feeling weak. Just when he needed to be strong for her.

She grabbed him. His forehead pressed the cool skin of her belly, but just for a second. He had work to do. He heaved himself off the guy. Reached to touch his carotid artery.

There was a pulse, barely. He was shutting down. He saw it in the man’s sig, too. No tears when this one went down the drain. “Dying,” he said.

“Good.” Her voice hardened. “Wish I’d done it myself.”

“I killed the ones outside,” he said. “Three more out there.”

Caro got to her feet and swayed for a moment, clutching the bedpost for balance. Her eyes looked glassy, but he could see her fighting the drop in blood pressure by sheer force of will. “What now?” she asked. “I assume you don’t want to involve the police.”

“That’s right,” he said. “My DNA would confuse the living shit out of a crime lab. But Mark won’t call the cops either when he shows up. This is his mess. Let him deal with it. We just need to get you away before he shows up.”

Noah looked around and spotted a crumpled wrapper from a breakfast sandwich on the floor. He retrieved it, fished a pen from a pocket of his own jacket and smoothed the grease-stained paper out onto the window sill. “You write this,” he said.

“Write what? Why me?”

“Mark might recognize my handwriting, even if I try to disguise it. I don’t want to identify myself to him yet.” He pushed the pen into her hand.

“OK.” She poised it over the crumpled wrapper. “So?”

“Write, ‘Oblio.chat. You’re the Keyseeker. I’m the Keyholder. When I find you, we’ll talk terms.’ Just that. Nothing else.”

She looked up, eyes wide and wary. “Terms? With Mark? Are you nuts?”

“We have to establish a point of contact. I’d finish this right now, if I could, but I’m not prepared. And I don’t want you anywhere near him.” They stared at each other. Finally, he made an impatient gesture. “Write it. Now. So we can get out of here.”