Page 54 of The Assassin's Captive
24
SERENA
The crash of breaking glass tears me from sleep. I bolt upright in Lorenzo's bed, my heart hammering against my ribs as the sound rips through the house. For a moment, I think I imagined it—a nightmare bleeding into the waking world. But then I hear footsteps pounding up the stairwell, heavy boots taking the steps two at a time.
Someone is in the house and it doesn't sound like the way Lorenzo moves.
I roll out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor as adrenaline floods my system. The bedroom door is still locked from the outside, but that won't matter if whoever broke in decides to come looking for me.
The footsteps reach the landing and stop. I hear voices now—low, urgent whispers that carry the weight of violence. My breath comes in short gasps as I press my ear to the door, trying to make out what they're saying. It's so quiet I can't understand much, but their tone has me flicking the inside lock to add more security between me and them.
"—second floor. Check every room."
"What about the woman?"
"Alive if possible. Dead if necessary."
The words turn my blood to ice. They're here for me.
I scan the bedroom for anything that could serve as a weapon. Lorenzo's nightstand is empty except for a lamp and a book. The dresser holds only clothes. But his office is just down the hall, and if I can get there?—
The sound of the front door exploding inward cuts through my thoughts. Wood splinters and metal crashes as someone kicks it off its hinges. More footsteps now, at least three different sets, stomping through the house.
I grab the ceramic lamp from the nightstand and position myself behind the bedroom door. If they're coming for me, they'll have to get through this door first. And when they do?—
The footsteps stop directly outside my room.
The door handle turns slowly, testing the lock. When it doesn't give, there's a moment of silence. Then the entire door frame explodes as someone puts their shoulder into it, the lock tearing free from the wood in a shower of splinters.
But it's not an intruder who stumbles through the doorway.
It's Lorenzo.
Blood streaks his face and stains his shirt, and the Glock in his right hand is trained on the hallway behind him. His eyes find mine across the room, wild with adrenaline and something that looks almost like relief.
"Get back," he snarls, his voice raw. "Stay behind the bed and don't move until I tell you."
I scramble toward the far corner of the room as the first attacker appears in the doorway. He's tall and lean, dressed in black tactical gear, with a pistol raised in a two-handed grip. His finger is already on the trigger when Lorenzo moves.
The sucker punch catches the intruder completely off guard. Lorenzo's left fist connects with the man's jaw with a sound like abaseball bat hitting concrete. The attacker's head snaps back, his weapon spinning away across the floor as he crumples.
But the second man is already pushing through the doorway.
This one is faster, more experienced. He has his gun up and aimed before Lorenzo can react, but instead of firing, he launches himself forward with a curved blade in his free hand. The knife slices across Lorenzo's ribs, opening a line of red through his shirt.
Lorenzo grunts and staggers backward, blood blooming across the fabric. The attacker presses his advantage, raising the knife for another strike.
The lamp in my hands shatters against the bedroom wall with a sound like a gunshot. I grab the largest shard of ceramic—sharp as a razor and heavy enough to do damage—and launch myself at the attacker's back.
The improvised blade slides into the muscle of his thigh with surprising ease. Blood wells around the ceramic edge as he screams and spins toward me, his own knife forgotten. I drive my knee up into his solar plexus with every ounce of strength I possess, and he doubles over, gasping.
Lorenzo finishes it with a blow to the skull that drops the man like a stone.
Blood pools on the tiles under them and spreads out in puddles beneath their limp forms. The two attackers lie motionless, their weapons scattered across the floor. The house falls silent except for our ragged breathing and the distant sound of sirens growing closer.
"We have to go," Lorenzo says, pressing his hand to the wound on his side. Blood seeps between his fingers. "Now."
"You're hurt?—"
