The old Israeli from boarding school never put me through anything as brutal as this, but he’d be so friggin’ proud of me right now.
Eight of Alejandro’s men were dead, another two wounded, and I still stood, using everything in this warehouse to my advantage as I ran around wreaking havoc, pretending to be Uma Thurman in Kill Bill. I’d done everything but telepathically tell Rio to make a run for it, having drawn all their attention. I didn’t know whether I’d saved my brother’s life or merely bought him time, but I couldn’t focus on that right now.
Even with all my masterful technique, I’d finally been run into a corner with no means of escape. Options were few. My left arm burned from gunpowder, sweat, and dirt entering my cuts and scrapes. Adrenaline, which I’d tried to regulate with breathing control, was failing me now. My legs were wobbly, and the last sidearm I’d pried from dead hands was out of ammo. Still, I crouched low, gripping my last usable weapon—a karambit knife—in my shaky hand. I waited for the assault, ready to use the tiger-claw blade on the throats of however many were gathering around the corner. Last I counted, thirteen still stood.
For about half an hour, I tried to remain alert, but I was worn out. It was when I found myself resting against a wall, my eyes shut and the knife hanging at my side, that I realized something wasn’t right. I sprang to attention, grimacing in pain from the soreness that had gripped my right arm. I swiftly moved to defend myself from certain attack, but the attack never came. I slowed my breathing in order to hear my surrounding environment—and heard nothing.
“What the fuck?” I gasped.
I cautiously crept to the end of my hallway, not believing what my ears were telling me. I was alone. No ambushes or traps were waiting for me as I carefully combed the warehouse. They’d even dragged off the dead ones. The only reminders of this orgy of violence were the pieces of broken office equipment, bullet holes, smeared blood, and shell casings. And I had to walk through it barefoot. E w.w.w.
But what had led Alejandro’s men to cut out? Rio. Had to be. He must have gotten hold of Daddy and our men. I wasted not a moment longer, heading back to the barricaded break room where I’d left him.
The door was partially ajar. Not knowing what to expect, I pushed the door open a little bit more and squeezed through. The table he’d wedged against the door had been pushed aside. There was space enough for someone to have gotten inside before me.
Oh, dear God, please let this boy be alive.
“Rio, it’s me. Don’t shoot,” I called out, seeing at least three bullet holes in the wall to my right. I assumed he’d missed whomever he had shot at. Now, if only they had missed too. “Rio?” I called out again. I took another step, almost slicing my foot open on a busted cell phone. A few more curse words escaped my lips. I checked my foot: cut, but not a mortal wound.
“Sis?” a worn voice finally responded, followed by a head peering out from between the snack and Coke machines. “Oh... my God,” he said as he took in the sight of me, the blood splattered all over my clothes, along with the complimentary bruises and cuts I’d suffered.
I limped over quickly, relieved that we’d both survived. “What the fuck did you do to the phone?” I asked.
“I ran out of bullets, so I threw the phone,” Rio said with a shrug, then gave me a long hug, despite my being a bloody mess. “He left after that. I must’ve run him off.”
“A phone. Yeah. I’m sure that did it,” I said with a smirk. “I’m just glad you’re alive, bro.”
“Me too, sis. Thank you for not giving up on me,” he said, kissing me on the cheek.
“Never,” I said, fighting off a tear. “You kept my shoes safe, right?”