Page 117 of Reaper
Volkov’s eyes bulge as Tank’s grip tightens on his throat. Veins pop in his eyes, turning them a sick red. Spittle and blood drip from his mouth, and the stub that used to be his hand fruitlessly flails at Tank’s face.
But his other hand?
It’s edging slowly toward his back pocket. In a snakelike gesture, it dips into his pocket and whips out in a sinister arc to bury a knife in Tank’s belly.
Tank bellows and releases his grip, falling backwards. Volkov grins.
Then his eyes meet mine. Just as I raise my gun. Those red orbs go so wide it’s a wonder they don’t fall out of his skull.
“No,” he whispers.
“It’s over, motherfucker.”
One exhale.
One pull of the trigger.
One bullet splinters apart his skull like a watermelon meeting a sledgehammer.
But one is not enough.
I pull the trigger again. And again. Sending bullet after bullet into his head, his torso, his groin, every part of the monster that I can hit before what remains of his body hits the ground.
Then I turn to Reaper.
He’s still.
Blue-gray.
I wail wordlessly and run to his side, Tank running alongside me, the knife still buried in his gut.
“Wake up, brother,” he says as he kneels beside Reaper’s body. “You can’t die on me. You can’t.”
“Please,” I whisper. “I need you. I love you.”
I press my fingers to his blood-slicked neck to check for a pulse.
I feel nothing.
The gunfire from outside cuts off abruptly, replaced by the distant wail of sirens growing louder by the second. My hands shake as I press harder against Reaper's neck, searching for any sign of life.
"Move," Conrad's voice cuts through my panic as he drops beside me. His fingers find the spot on Reaper's throat that mine just abandoned. For several agonizing seconds, he's silent, his face a mask of concentration.
"There," he says finally. "It's weak as hell, but it's there."
Relief floods through me so suddenly I nearly collapse. "Thank God. Thank fucking God."
Heavy footsteps thunder down the stairs, and Mayhem bursts into the room, his mohawk disheveled and his clothes splattered with blood that isn't his own. Diesel follows close behind, both of them breathing hard.
"Cops are maybe three minutes out," Mayhem announces, his usual manic energy replaced by grim efficiency. "Probably FBI too, judging by the radio chatter I picked up. We need to move. Now."
"We can't move him," I snap, my protective instincts flaring. "He needs medical attention. Real medical attention. The ambulances will be with the police—"
"And we'll all be in federal prison," Tank interrupts, still clutching the knife in his abdomen. "You don't understand what kind of heat this brings down. The torture room, the bodies, the weapons—there's no talking our way out of this kind of trouble."
I shake my head violently. "I don't care about that. He's dying. The only way to save him is to stay here and wait for the paramedics."
"You don't have a choice," Tank says, his voice carrying a finality that makes my blood run cold. His eyes run me over, flattening me beneath their weight and power, allowing me only a second of a breather as he kneels beside Volkov’s body, takes the keys from his pocket, and unlocks himself. “You’re coming with us.”
