Page 71 of Finding Denver
“Are—”
Colt shakes his head, and Lewis stops speaking. I close the adjoining door behind us, just as another sound tiptoes down my spine.
Footsteps. Someone is walking down the hallway. Quickly moving. A lot of them. Too many.
My heart thunders in my chest, sweat joining the blood on the back of my neck, and we stand on the far side of the room, facing the door as the footsteps come to a stop. Colt takes out his gun. Lewis does, too.
“The moment you can run, you run,” Colt says to me.
I shake my head, my gaze fixed on the doorhandle as I take out my own gun. “Nope.”
“Denver—”
“I’m not a damsel, Colt,” I say. “I’ve survived for a reason.”
“This isn’t about you being a damsel. You have no idea what they’ll do to you if they take you to Spider.” He searches my face, brow furrowed. “Promise me you’ll run.”
I don’t have time to answer. The first shot blasts through the door handle, the metal doorknob loosening. More shots break the hinges, the metal clanging into the room. In response, Colt fires three shots. The wood splinters in a tight group, but it’s only seconds between the lastbullet landing and the door being kicked through, the heavy wood thudding onto the carpet.
We fire at any movement. Bullets whip by and Colt’s arm snatches around my waist, our bodies meeting as we continue shooting. He doesn’t loosen his grip on me. If anything, it tightens, even when the adjoining door to my room bangs open again and we’re joined by Charlie’s men.
Men in ski masks filter into the room. It’s a mash of alarming sensations—the black masks, the spritz of red against pretty wallpaper, the gunshots tearing through a quiet winter evening, the haze of gunpowder.
I shoot anyone I don’t know, my shoulders relaxed, my palm cradling the butt of the gun, the index finger of my other hand squeezing the trigger with deliberation. The kickback tingles, gold casings spitting across the carpet.
“Victor is by your door. Go, now,” Colt says to me. “Lewis, go with her.”
I don’t know how I even hear him. My ears are ringing, and my senses are assaulted as Lewis takes my arm and leads me away.
“What about you?” I call out to Colt, but my voice doesn’t travel over the shouts and bullets.
Lewis and I follow Victor out of the door to my room, and to my right are bodies and more masked men. Victor and Lewis take out four more of them, and I run for the elevator, jabbing the button with a shaky hand. Sweat pumps out of me, my sweatshirt sticking to my skin, and I peel it off, tossing it aside, my T-shirt underneath almost soaked through with sweat.
The numbers of the elevator climb higher. I rest my hand against the wall, heaving in breaths, droplets of sweat landing on my shoes as I focus on the floor.
I’m okay. I’m fine. Colt will be fine, too.
Butwhat if he’s not?
I left him in a room of bloodshed, clearly outnumbered. He could die. I’d never see him again, and neither would Holly. Panic shoots through my veins like lightning under my skin, and I look at Victor and Lewis.
I have to go back.
The elevator doors open. I look toward my room, where Lewis and Victor continue to hold off men.
Lewis meets my eye, panic overtaking his usual calm. “Denver!”
A strong hand grips my throat and pulls me into the elevator with such force that my feet almost leave the ground.
My body slams into the wall, the metal railing colliding with my stomach and smashing any air out of me.
I slump to the ground.
My lungs are deflated, my body panicked. I stare into the metal flooring of the elevator, mouth opening and closing in a fruitless attempt to find air.
“Denver Luxe,” the man says, his voice throaty, like he smokes too many cigarettes. “He said I could have fun with you first. Damaged goods mean you’re a fighter.” His lips are near my ear. He doesn’t smell like cigarettes or sweat. He smells clean. Almost fresh. “They like it when you fight back.”
I can’t breathe. Can’t move. My fight or flight has adrenaline flooding my body so intensely that my bones feel close to rattling.
