“You just made a big fucking mistake,” he grinds out, his eyes suddenly millimetres from mine. He grabs my upper arm roughly. “You’re gonna regret helping that little bitch, I guarantee you.”
He looks around, disgusted, and I have to suppress the urge to giggle. Nope, too late. The high-pitched sound slips out of my mouth for a second, until I clamp my hand over my lips, cutting it off. What the hell is wrong with me? I shouldn’t be giggling. This guy is scary as shit, he’s got a gun, and he’s pissed.
“What’s so fucking funny?” he grunts, letting my arm drop and grabbing a chunk of my hair instead. I yelp, expecting pain, but all he does is snatch a bobby pin out of the bird’s nest I styled so carefully this morning.
He unfolds the bobby pin and steps away from me, pressing one of the ends into the fire escape lock, giving it a jiggle. I slide sideways out of the toilet cubicle and back up a little, very slowly, thinking I can slip away while he’s concentrating on trying to get the door open. I’m starting to regret helping this Kaitlin chick escape, because if Miss Irish Royalty is being chased, it’s got to be some of the baddest motherfuckers in this city who would dare to pursue her. This guy’s got to be with the Italians. A hitman, maybe? But why?
I’m starting to think I might actually be able to sneak out of here when a hand darts out and yanks me back toward the heavy door. “I can see what you’re doing,” he says, obviously unimpressed. I want to roll my eyes, but I’m too scared right now to do anything except stand mutely and try not to think about the way a bullet would tear my face in half. I feel like I’m going to pee my pants. And throw up. And cry.
“What are you doing?” I ask, as the guy releases my arm and resumes his work on the lock. “It’s one of those magnetic locks,” I add. “It needs the original key to unlock it.”
The guy takes that in, presses his forehead to the door for a moment as he sighs loudly. “Fuuuuuuuuuck,” he groans, throwing the bobby pin on the ground near our feet. This entire time, he hasn’t lowered his gun, like he’s expecting me to attack him or something.
I hear sirens close by, and I know he does, too. He glances in the direction of the closed bathroom door. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I don’t want to hurt you, but—”
“So don’t,” I interrupt.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeats, frowning, “but you’ve just lost my mark. You’ve ruined my entire fucking day.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’re the one who lost her,” I bite back. “All I did was help her get to safety.” As soon as the words have left my mouth, I’m cursing myself. What the hell did I just say that for?
This guy, this fucking guy, turns from pissed off to amused as if I’ve just clicked my fingers and made it happen. His crooked smile returns as he licks his lips, the sirens almost on the diner’s doorstep now.
“To safety, huh? And where exactly would that be?”
Holy Mother of God, I’m in deep shit.
THREE
GRACIE
We’re on the roof.
The passenger door yawns open, and Kaitlin is long gone. The silly bitch just sat there crying, chest heaving, while I sawed at her jammed seatbelt with one of my throwing knives, barely able to reach the webbing from where I was pinned. I could hear those two fuckheads up front, trying to wrestle themselves free, so I didn’t have much time to shout at her. I had just about enough time to slap her across the face and tell her to run before the sound of groaning, twisted metal reached me—they were breaking loose. Then Kaitlin was scrambling out of the shattered window beside her, and she was skidding on broken glass and doing as I told her: running.
Five seconds have passed since then, and so far I’m still pinned on my side of the car. But I’m working on it. There’s more breaking glass, and then the guy who came to escort us from the plane, the one with the long hair, is crouched down beside the window Kaitlin crawled through, staring straight at me. He has a gun in his hand. “Fuck!” he shouts. He doesn’t seem impressed that Kaitlin’s gone. Lifting the gun and aiming it right at me, he loses the safety. “Which way did she go?” he snaps.
I lift my own gun and I shoot. The round should hit him right in the face, but he’s quick, I’ll give him that. He ducks to the left, using the warped frame of the car as a shield. “Motherfucker!” he shouts.
“Quit wasting time!” the other one hollers from the driver’s seat. “She went left. Get after her, man!”