But what other choice did I have?
I kept my gun in my hand, using just one arm to help me get up the rickety-ass fire escape, stretching my legs wide to reach over missing steps as I tried—and mostly failed—to keep my back close to the brick wall.
But there were no bullets as I got close to the top, making me wonder if he was out of ammo, if that was why he’d run instead of trying to seek the relative safety of his SUV and what was left of his men.
It made sense why he hadn’t just pushed ahead a little bit, hid behind the corner of a building, and waited for me to run past, then put a bullet in the back of my head.
He was out of ammo.
There was a surge of relief at that as I took a slow, steadying breath, placing my gun on the ledge of the roof so I could haul myself up the rest of the way.
It wasn’t a high building, really. It was probably just a little taller than the roof height of your average ranch-style home.
Apparently, this particular roof was a hangout spot for locals. Either the homeless or kids with nothing better to do. A couple of old red plastic Adirondack chairs sat next to what looked like a bucket of sand and spent cigarette butts. Old beer cans and bottles were scattered about with what seemed like candy wrappers and condom foils.
But no guy standing there with a gun.
“The fuck?” I hissed to myself, glancing down at the roads around the building, wondering if I’d been wrong, if I’d simply missed him, been too slow, not known the grid well enough to keep up.
That lasted for all of fifteen seconds, though.
Before a movement in my peripheral vision had my stomach clenching.
Even as I turned with my finger going to the trigger, though, the man was straightening from behind an abandoned stack of pallets I’d thought were too small to hide a full-grown man.
I’d pay for that mistake.
Even as my arm lifted, I could see the gun. I knew there was nowhere for me to hide.
I did the only thing I could do.
I squeezed the trigger.
But so did he.
I had no idea if my bullet found a new home in warm flesh, because one was lodging into the corner most part of my shoulder.
And the impact had fucked with my balance.
I knew what was happening a horrifying heartbeat before I felt my body free falling backward.
Time seemed to slow in that moment as I realized there was nothing that was going to stop me from slamming back into the unyielding pavement below.
It’s not the fall that gets you. It’s the sudden stop at the bottom.
Strangely enough, there was a certain serenity in the fall, in knowing there was nothing I could do to stop it. No amount of panic was going to help me. So my body just seemed to come to peace with the situation, making my heartbeat slow down and my breathing become slow and deep.
It wasn’t for a long second before I remembered some stats I’d heard about when I’d worked construction briefly before signing up to be a Henchmen with Malc.
Heights over one-hundred feet were almost always fatal.
Almost.
And the roof of the building was only maybe twenty-five feet.
I could and likely would survive it.
But what would come after the survival?
A coma?
That was no way to live.
Protect your head.
I didn’t know where that voice came from, but it spoke in my ear in a voice that wasn’t my own, in a voice that was a little too welcome, a little too familiar.
Husky, yet feminine.
Billie’s voice.
Protect your head.
I didn’t have time to analyze the order. All I could do was raise my arms, wincing as the movement sent pain shooting down my shoulder and up my neck from the bullet lodged there, and wrapping my hands around the back of my neck.
Before I could wonder if my guys would be able to find me, I was hitting. And I didn’t know anything else.
CHAPTER THREE
Billie
“I swear to God, Billie, if you feed me any more tofu and sprouted beans, I am going to be forced to order a big, greasy, cheese-filled burrito,” Violet grumbled from the half-opened bathroom door, the steam pouring out from her hot shower, thanks to the lack of an exhaust fan in the room.
I guiltily slipped the container of extra firm tofu back into the lunchmeat drawer.
What can I say? It was a staple of my diet. I sometimes forgot that my friends and family didn’t like it. In my defense, though, I’d only served her sprouted beans once. And it was on top of a giant salad, not the main course.
“Well, shame on me for trying to get something healthy into your body,” I griped, glancing over the contents of my fridge, then my freezer, realizing I didn’t have anything she would likely find halfway palatable. “But maybe we should order in. Burritos actually sound good.”