Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(73)

I pressed the plunger in as his hand reached mine.

The effect was instantaneous. Victor’s eyes rolled up in his head as his hand fell away. He tried to say something but failed. His weight shifted sideways and he slumped onto the bed like a crumbling statue. I didn’t waste time watching. My hands were already in his back pants pocket where his knife had gone. I got the knife open and squeezed the handle between my knees. The position was unsteady but the blade was sharp.

The tape fell away and my hands were free.

I stood and breathed deeply, fighting to control the adrenaline pumping through me. Forcing myself to not think about what I had just barely avoided. There would be time for that later. I flexed my hands, getting the blood running through the fingers. The tape had been tight. I’d need steady hands for what was about to happen.

I looked from Victor to the closed door and back.

They’d had their chance.

Now it was my turn.

Joseph’s voice called through the door. “Come on, Victor. Not all night. Finish up with her already. We have to go.”

I had to move quickly. Victor’s face was serene, blissful. The dose in the syringe had been powerful. Victor was far heavier than my brother, but he didn’t have my brother’s tolerance. He was gone. In another world. I leaned over his body and got his holster open. His gun was an HK45, Heckler & Koch. That would work fine. BMW, Siemens, H&K—trust the Germans to do cars or finely calibrated scientific equipment or guns better than anyone. Those Teutonic standards of perfection.

I paused by the closet light, pulled back the slide, and checked the chamber.

The brassy end of a .45 caliber cartridge peeked out.

I checked the clip. Full.

I flicked the safety off.

I stared at the closet bulb for a few seconds. Not letting myself blink. The living room would be bright. When I opened the door, I didn’t want my eyes taking time to adjust.

I took a breath.

Blew it out.

My turn.

I opened the door.

In the first second, I had the advantage. Both due to surprise, and because the living room was brightly lit while the darkness of the bedroom left me obscured. Across the room, someone sat in one of the armchairs behind a raised newspaper. I could make out the ornate lettering centered at the top of the front page that faced me. The San Francisco Chronicle. I couldn’t tell who was behind the paper. Just a hand holding each outside edge.

It didn’t matter.

I fired a single time directly through the O in Francisco. Dead center between the hands. The inside of the newspaper flecked red and the hands released their grip. The pages fluttered down. The tanned guy in the charcoal suit leaned sideways, blank open mouth showing his white teeth as if in a wide yawn. A hole where the upper bridge of his nose used to be.

I stepped into the living room as I heard a curse and saw Joseph throw himself to the side. I sent two shots his way, cognizant of Brandon’s supine form. Both missed. Joseph rolled behind an armchair. I fired twice more into the armchair, aiming about where his head would be. Figuring maybe the big .45 rounds could get through a bit of stuffing and cheap fabric.

I got my answer almost immediately. I lunged into the kitchen and down to the floor as a fusillade of bullets tore through the plaster wall above me. I was already crawling fast. Not wanting to stick around in the same place.

Two more shots ripped into the floor where I’d just been.

Lying prone, I saw a trace of arm sticking out from around the chair. I aimed carefully, letting the darkness of the arm blur into the background, the gun sight sharp in the foreground. I squeezed the trigger smoothly and was rewarded with a scream.

I rolled away as three more bullets tore through the wall. One angled up and went through the kitchen’s overhead light. I threw my arms over my head as shattered glass rained down. I heard rushed footsteps. Gun up, I stood and peered into the living room. The front door was open. I checked behind the armchair, wary of a trick. No Joseph. There was blood on the floor. A spotted red trail led to the door. He was gone.

I used Victor’s knife to cut the duct tape off Brandon. He was in bad shape. Three empty syringes next to him. His breaths came laboriously and his lips were blue. Spittle had dried across his mouth and his face was pale. I pulled up an eyelid. His eyes were glassy and unseeing. I pressed my fingers against his neck and felt a weak, uncertain pulse.

A textbook overdose.

With a prayer, I pulled open the drawer of the coffee table. The two white naloxone tubes I had brought were still there. I put one carefully up his right nostril. For the second time in five minutes I pressed a plunger.

Brandon lurched upward, cursing, arms flailing.

He wasn’t happy, but my brother was alive. Very much alive.

It took me a few minutes to soothe him. When he finally quieted he looked around, taking in my blood-covered face, the bodies and the bloodstains, the bullet holes in the armchair and walls. He looked at me uncertainly. “Nik?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I might lose my security deposit.”

I hugged him tightly. “You mean my security deposit, shithead.”





35


I used Brandon’s phone to dial a number from memory. “Jess.”

Her voice was frightened. “Nikki, are you okay? Who were those people? What happened?”

“I’m going to give you an address. You’ll see my brother outside. Take him to a hotel. My apartment isn’t safe. He’s going to be sick. You have to help him get through it.”