Page 100 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

From the corner of my eye, I see him reach behind his back with his free hand. A glint of metal presses into my other palm. The cool, small weight of the scissors. Not exactly a weapon that can win against a gun, but it’s better than nothing.

Drakon steps forward, his own weapon raised. “Any last words?”

“Yes. Four of them.” Thatcher smiles then, a sharp, feral thing. “You better not miss.”

“I never do.”

The first shot shatters the air like a thunderclap, a jagged sound that tears through the charged silence. Instinct takes over, Thatcher’s hand wrenches me down and behind the scant cover of a rusted barrel. We hit the ground hard, concrete biting into my knees, my palms. But there’s no time for pain, no time for anything but the frantic pounding of my heart, the deafening roar of gunfire.

Bullets ricochet off metal, off concrete, filling the air with a deadly hail. I flinch as a spray of shattered glass rains down on us, my breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. Beside me, Thatcher is a coiled spring, his jaw set, his eyes narrowed in fierce concentration.

“Stay down,” he orders, his voice barely audible over the cacophony.

I nod, not trusting my voice. My fingers tighten around the scissors he pressed into my hand, and I see as he grabs a long, sharp shard of broken glass as a weapon, seeming tofully ignore the single stream of blood that glides down his wrist.

Thatcher risks a glance over the top of the barrel, his gaze darting, assessing. I follow his lead, my eyes straining against the chaos. The two men flank Drakon on either side, both armed, both moving with the deadly grace of trained killers.

I scour the room for my Biscuit and it’s bittersweet that I don’t see him. I hope he found a good hiding spot. Somewhere he can escape from later…even if I don’t make it out of this alive.

Nerves clench my stomach and suddenly, everything I’ve eaten today threatens to come back up. It’s one thing to practice self-defense with a friend in a cozy, warm gym. It’s another entirely when it’s a living person with a gun in their hand, pointed directly at you…and it’s your life or theirs.

“One more thing, Allie,” Thatcher whispers. “I love you, too.”

He barely has the words out before he’s on his feet, charging at the men and dodging their bullets. He tackles the Enforcer first, plunging the shard of broken glass into his shoulder. The gun skitters across the floor, far out of reach of them. But not so far out of reach forme.

Even though he told me to stay put, stay down, there’s no way I’m letting him fight three against one. Even if I can getonehit in, it’s better than nothing. I tuck the scissors into my pocket and, still ducking, I army crawl my way over to where the gun has landed across the room as Thatcher pulls a knife out of the Enforcer’s belt, using it against him and the other goon he’s fighting. Thatcher slashes the younger man’s arm, enough to disable him, but not take him out entirely.

Drakon, typical of any dictator, backs away from the hand-to-hand combat. Equally typical of men…none of them notice me slithering across the floor, ducking behind barrels and boxes wherever I can.

No one suspects the woman can or will fight back. And I plan on fully using that to my advantage.

I’m within arm’s length of where the gun has fallen and I reach out from behind the crates. The tips of my fingers hit cool metal and I pull it closer to me, my heart racing as I wrap my hand around the handle. It feels alien, wrong, so much different than my fake gun lighter. But I push down the revulsion. There’s no room for hesitation, not now. Not with Drakon’s men bearing down on us, their intent lethal and clear.

I swallow hard, my mouth dry as bone. It’s terrifying to know that the twitch of my finger could end a life.

But then I think of Thatcher, of the blood on his face, the bruises mottling his skin. I think of the coldness in Drakon’s eyes, the casual cruelty in his voice as he threatened everything Thatcher holds dear.

And suddenly, my hands are steady.

I lift the gun over the stack of crates, using the sights to take aim at the man I don’t recognize. I have the clearest shot of him. I’ve only fired a gun a few times in my life; always under my father’s supervision and always in the middle of the woods while he was trying to teach my sister and I how to hunt for ducks.

Neither of us took to it.

But I’m grateful for those lessons now.

I exhale and squeeze the trigger gently in a smooth, practiced motion. The recoil jolts up my arms, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. But I don’t flinch.

Not at the ringing in my ear. Not at thecry of pain across the room. And not even when one of Drakon’s men goes down, his cry lost in the din. A fierce, grim satisfaction surges through me, chased by a sickening wave of guilt. But there’s no time to process, no time to feel.

Because I see Drakon’s eyes land on me from where I’m hiding behind the boxes. Somewhere across the room I hear Biscuit bark and I whisper a silent prayer that he stays hidden wherever he is.

I duck back down just as one of Drakon’s bullets pings off my makeshift bunker. My heart is a wild thing in my chest, my breath sawing in and out.

Even the best soldiers can be overwhelmed. Even the strongest shields can break.

I close my eyes for a heartbeat, the thunder of my pulse in my ears. And then I move.

I burst from behind the crates, aiming at the Enforcer, but I don’t have a good shot. He and Thatcher are in the midst of their fight, both worse for the wear, but from the looks of the blood streaming down Thatcher’s face, he’s starting to lose steam.

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