I ripped the left one from his head.
There was a scream that managed to rip through the haze surrounding me and the weight rolled off my back. Weakly pushing up to my knees, I sucked in air that seemed as thick as syrup. It rebelled in my throat, refusing to push past and inflate my lungs. I could feel the sensation of woven wool under my hands, but I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see anything. With a last-ditch monumental effort I struggled to expand my chest and pull in air. It worked; a teaspoon of oxygen managed to trickle down into my lungs. That short, choppy breath was followed by two more and then by a brutal kick in my ribs. I was thrown what felt like several feet and landed hard on my hip and shoulder. Fragments of light and color were returning to my sight and I spotted the glittering chrome of my gun barely out of reach. Lunging, I snatched it from the floor, rolled to my side, and fired.
And missed.
If this had been the movies, I would’ve hit him right between the eyes, and that would’ve been that. Conquering hero prevails. Popcorn and a cold one for everybody. But this wasn’t a movie. This was crappy real life, and I missed the son of a bitch. He was moving faster than any lung-shot man had a right to move, and I still had the vision of a ninety-year-old glaucoma victim. Ideal circumstances it did not make.
Sevastian had lost his gun as well when I’d shot him in the chest. With one blood-covered hand clamped to the side of his head, he was using the other to reach for his own weapon on the floor when my bullet passed him by a good six inches. I fired again. This time I did hit him . . . in the shoulder, but the wrong shoulder. The blow knocked him nearly sideways, but that only lined his gun up on me all the faster and he was already firing. Right up until the moment he dropped, boneless as a jellyfish, I thought I was dead. I knew I was; I knew it for an irrefutable fact. I could all but feel the bullet in my throat instead of in the floor that had claimed it; yet here I was alive, whole. And I owed none of that to myself.
Michael looked down at Sevastian impassively. “He’s not a particularly nice man either.”
He wasn’t wrong. First a child molester and now a hit man, Michael was being exposed to people who weren’t any better than those who kept him in the Institute. It wasn’t the most smoothly run escape to ever come down the pike. My talents, assuming I had any, apparently lay elsewhere.
Once again pushing up to my knees, I tried from there to get to my feet. Sevastian’s chest was still rising and falling, albeit slowly and unevenly, which meant Michael hadn’t killed him. Relief weakened my legs almost as much as the lack of oxygen. Putting that burden on him even to save my life wasn’t remotely what I wanted. Unfortunately, Michael seemed destined to do for others what he wouldn’t risk doing for himself. “You . . . okay, Misha?” I gasped roughly as I tried for more air.
He blinked and moved to my side to brace me. “I should probably be asking you that. He nearly killed you.”
The bastard had certainly given it his best shot. “Nah.” I rubbed the back of my hand across my eyes, clearing the last of the swirling flecks of light. And breathing, the breathing was slowly coming along. “I had it under . . . control . . . the whole time.”
With an openly skeptical look generated by the croak of my abused throat, Michael nodded and said dryly, “I’m sure.”
His mask of equanimity didn’t fool me. The tawny glasses emphasized the faint pallor of his skin and the fingers of one hand were curled tightly against the palm. It was the hand, I would bet, that he’d used to touch the back of Sevastian’s neck. Michael had left his hiding place behind the couch and used what Jericho had given him—no, what Jericho had forced on him—all to save my miserable ass. Taking him by the shoulder, I urged him toward the door. Sevastian and Pavel usually worked as a pair. There shouldn’t be anyone else lying in wait for us, but I tucked Michael behind me all the same. “What did you do to him?” I murmured, my eyes flickering back and forth for any signs of a nasty surprise that would indicate Sevastian had changed his MO to include a backup team.