Beauty and the Assassin

But there’s no gunshot. I hear some grunts, can’t tell whose.

Please, don’t let that be Tolyan’s!

The thugs laugh. They start betting on how exactly Roy will kill Tolyan.

“I say he uses the knife.”

“I don’t know… Hard to win a knife fight, if the other guy knows you’re coming.”

The driver nods. “He’ll use the gun.”

I shudder. He has a gun? But he hasn’t fired yet, which means he’s doing fine with just the knife. If Tolyan were winning, Roy would’ve pulled the trigger by now. My palms grow damp.

Please! Universe, God or Buddha or anybody up there listening! Please, help Tolyan!

“How about if we bet on how long it’s gonna take before her boyfriend’s dead?”

“You been timing from the beginning?”

No, no, no.

With every breath I take, with every beat of my heart, the hope that’s been shining in my chest since meeting Tolyan grows darker. Roy enjoys doling out pain. And he said he wanted to make Tolyan pay.

This is my fault. If I hadn’t been such a stubborn bitch and stuck to Tolyan tighter, I wouldn’t have been kidnapped, and Roy wouldn’t have gotten the upper hand.

So what if I was supposed to be bait? Tolyan would’ve made sure I was safe.

Now I’ve messed up everything. If anything happens to Tolyan, it’ll be my fault. If I die, that’s my fault, too.

Stupid. I’ve been so damn stupid!

Grunts. A strangled yell. Then silence.

My heart pumps adrenaline. I can’t stop shaking. Tears bead in my eyes, and I blink them away. Crying would only make Roy happier. On top of that, Tolyan wouldn’t want me to cry like a helpless damsel. He would want me to look for an opportunity to escape.

Rings glances at his phone to check the time, then make a rough sound in his throat.

“Man, what’s takin’ so long?” No Rings says.

“How am I supposed to know? Maybe Roy’s taking his time kicking the other guy’s ass.”

“Maybe I should go see.”

Rings starts to move forward; the door bursts open with a bang. I flinch, then muster the courage to look.

Relief rushes through me. Tolyan is at the entrance, his shoulders impossibly wide, his strong, large hands on his hips, booted feet braced apart. No bruises, swelling, cuts or blood on his face. No tears or bloodstains on his clothes, either. His features are set in a mildly bored mask that taunts his opponents—Is that the best you’ve got?

The trio of thugs make little sounds of confusion. Then they start to pull out their guns from the waistbands of their low-slung pants.

Tolyan throws a knife at the driver, the blade flashing as it spins through the air, and then suddenly it’s protruding from his throat. He makes a gurgling noise, then pulls at the knife. Blood spurts, falling on my calves and shoes and the area around his body. I jerk back—or try to while tied to the chair.

A gunshot rings out. I cry out in terror.

Something crunches, and No Rings drops. From the unnatural angle of his neck, I think he’s dead, too. Just without the bleeding.

I jerk my head up to see Tolyan. He’s still standing, no gunshot wound that I can see. The blood on his pants is from the driver, the one who’s dying—or maybe is already dead—from the massive hemorrhage.

Rings tries to aim. Tolyan kicks up, connecting with the thug’s right arm. He drops the gun, then pulls a knife with his left hand.