“Your mother must have been so fucking disappointed in you,” he says. “I have no idea how you fooled Ramirez into hiring you, but he must be kicking himself pretty hard too right now. You can’t even come down here and do this right.”
“You’re a fucking dead man.” Alfonso trains his gun on Cade, giving him exactly what he wants. He’s going to shoot him, no doubt about it. I want to scream. This is really fucking bad. If Cade gets shot and Alfonso kills him, he’ll be shooting me three seconds later and Cade’s sacrifice will have been for nothing. I can’t breathe. What does he want me to do? How can he expect me to get this right? I’m not Jamie. I haven’t been to war with him. We haven’t saved each other’s asses more times than I can count. My father is probably already dead, and the guilt of that will cripple me for the rest of my life. If I have to carry the guilt of Cade’s death around with me, too, I don’t think I’ll survive it.
“Do it,” Cade snaps, sneering at Alfonso. “Take your fucking shot. Take it. What’s the worst that can happen?”
That last comment seems odd. What’s the worst that can happen? Why would he be talking Alfonso through this? It makes no sense. It dawns on me almost instantaneously, though: Cade isn’t talking to the man on the stairs. His, ‘take the fucking shot. What’s the worst that can happen?’ is aimed at me, and he’s waiting on me to follow through and squeeze the trigger.
I can think of plenty of terrible things that can happen. I could list them off in my head, but there’s no time. There’s no fucking time whatsoever. Cade takes yet another step forward, gritting his teeth. “Come on!” he shouts. “Fucking do it! DO IT!”
I fire. For good or for bad, I fire. The recoil of the weapon exploding in my hands sends a shockwave of panic through me, and for a moment I’m too stunned to react. Time catches up quickly, as though someone is leaning on the fast forward button, and I see Cade launching himself toward me. Alfonso has disappeared from my line of sight, but does that mean that I shot him? Is he fucking dead? I don’t have a clue. The oxygen leaves my lungs as Cade tackles me to the ground. I make a pained ufffing sound as he lands on top of me, his body covering mine, and I can’t breathe, hear, or see anything. My ears are still ringing from the gunshot. Cade rolls off me and spins onto his back, gun raised, pointed at the stairs, but Alfonso isn’t there.
Another shot rings out, loud and violent. A bullet hits the concrete wall next to my head, and Cade starts firing, this time aiming at the ground where we were just stood a second ago.
Alfonso is sprawled out on his side, grimacing, his shirt and his neck drenched in blood. I didn’t kill the bastard but I certainly managed to injure him. Cade’s gun barks again, and Alfonso’s body jerks as the bullet hits him in the stomach, just below his ribcage.
“Fuck.” Cade grabs me by my shirt and literally slides me behind the wall next to us. A tower of boxes topples over between Cade and Alfonso, sending rubber sex toys tumbling out over the floor.
“You fucking whore!” Alfonso screams. “This isn’t over. This isn’t fucking over!”
“Oh, yes it is.” Out of nowhere, Rebel is tearing down the basement stairs, Carnie behind him. The two of them are shooting rapidly, over and over again, and Alfonso is bleeding freely. They shoot him countless times, in his torso, his legs, his arms, and finally, when Rebel hits the bottom of the stairs, in his head. The air smells metallic, of gunpowder and blood.
Through a haze of concrete dust, Rebel emerges like some kind of ruthless god. He’s covered in blood, his shirt torn, his right hand bleeding, but he looks invincible. He looks terrifying—a nightmare in the flesh—and I have never been happier to see him.
He drops down to his knees and takes me in his arms, his hands frantically roaming all over my body, looking for injuries. “Jesus, Soph. Are you okay? Tell me. Are you fucking okay?”
“Yes, yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine.” I really am, which is a goddamn miracle. I should be dead, or at least severely injured, and yet I’m pain free, completely fine. Weird. Not that I’m complaining. Rebel holds my face in his hands, his cool eyes traveling over me, trying to find signs of discomfort, despite my protests. “I’m okay, I promise,” I say, leaning my forehead against his. He lets out a deep breath, hugging me to him. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine. Everyone is fine.”
“And…” God, I don’t think I can say the words. “My dad? Is…we were too late, weren’t we? Is he…is he dead?”