Craving The Wrong Brother (Sloane and Knox) novel Chapter 143

It happens so fast that I don’t even realize what’s happening until a few seconds later.

The man behind me collapses. One second, his gun is pressing into the back of my head, and the next, he’s a dead weight crashing onto my shoulders. His body knocks me forward, and I lose balance, hitting the ground hard. Blood pours down my back.

I don’t even have time to scream because guns go off all around me.

There's a lot of shouting.

I gently push the dead man off me, and his corpse lands on my left side.

My teeth are chattering even though the basement isn’t cold. Dust kicks up with every bullet that hits the floor or the wall. I don’t know where to look. I can’t look. My lungs feel too small for the panic I’m trying to breathe through.

I force my eyes open and see the gun.

His gun.

The man’s fingers are still curled loosely around the handle, but his grip has slackened enough that I can pry it from him. My hands shake as I take it.

I start crawling. There’s no time to think. Only move. Only survive.

The concrete scrapes my knees raw as I drag myself forward, and the dead man’s blood makes everything slippery. I spot an old metal filing cabinet two feet away—tall, dented, and covered in rust that flakes off when I touch it. It’s not exactly bulletproof, but it’s something. Better than lying in the open as a target. I duck behind it just as a bullet whizzes past and lodges itself into the concrete wall behind me. The sound resembles that of a hammer hitting bricks.

I press my back to the cabinet, breathing hard. Then I peek around the edge.

Most of the men are no longer standing in the open. They’ve taken cover behind the wide concrete columns that line the basement. Knox is behind one.

Mateo is crouched behind a large stack of old wooden pallets and some sort of collapsed cardboard box setup. The pallets look like they’ve been there for years, warped and stained with water damage.

Two masked men lie dead on the floor. Mateo’s men.

I duck again just in time.

A bullet slams into the filing cabinet right where my head was, the impact so loud and sudden it makes me bite my tongue.

“Oh God,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to my knees. “This is so much worse than the movies.”

In the movies, they always make it look heroic. But this? This is terrifying. I can’t hear anything except gunfire and my own scream that hasn’t left my throat yet but sits there like a caged bird desperate to escape.

I’m going to die here.

I can feel it in my bones. My whole body is vibrating like it’s moments from giving out.

I peek again, slower this time.

Serena has crawled under the stairs, sitting on her ass with her injured leg elevated. She’s halfway hidden in the shadows, looking as scared as I believe I look.

Hunter is crawling fast toward her now that the ropes are off his wrists and ankles. I can see the red marks where they bit into his skin. The man who’d been cutting him free is down. He's been shot but obviously not dead.

Finn and Soraya are still tied to their chairs, but they’re on the floor now. They must have thrown themselves down. They move together, their chairs grinding against the concrete as they drag themselves inch by inch toward the stairs.

Another bullet hits the wall beside me, spraying concrete dust that gets in my eyes and makes them water. I drop back down, my spine hitting the filing cabinet hard enough to rattle my teeth.

I close my eyes and cross myself. It’s not something I’d normally do. I'm not even religious, and I’m pretty sure I’m not doing it right. But there better be a deity listening right now.

“If I make it out of here alive,” I whisper under my breath, “I swear I’ll be good. I’ll listen next time. I’ll stay where I’m told. I won’t get curious about things that aren’t my business. I won’t—”

But even I don’t believe myself. I’ve never been good. Not in the way that word means when people talk about being saved or blessed or worthy. Not in the way that would impress whatever deity might be watching this horror show and taking notes.

I keep mumbling anyway. Pleas to anyone who might be listening. Deals I know I won’t keep even if I live long enough to try.

And then suddenly—