Page 119 of Reaper
Barely.
My heart hammers against my ribs like a caged bird trying to break free; every beat feels like it might be synchronized with Reaper's last.
The sirens crescendo, and suddenly the mouth of the alley is flooded with flashing lights, red and blue strobing against thedarkness like some twisted disco from hell. I catch glimpses of vehicles racing past: police cruisers, FBI sedans with their distinctive government plates, ambulances with their urgent white bulk cutting through the night.
My breath catches. Ambulances. Medical help. Everything Reaper needs to survive is racing past us just fifty feet away, and here we are hiding in the shadows like rats.
I rise, my mouth opening to call out, to scream for help, to do anything that might save him. The words are right there on my tongue when Tank's head snaps toward me. The look he gives me isn't just a warning; it's a promise. A promise of violence, of consequences that would make Ruslan Volkov's sick torture chamber look like an elementary school playground.
I sink back against the wall. The words die bitter in my mouth. The parade of emergency vehicles continues past, salvation for Reaper speeding by in a blaze of flashing lights.
A sob rips through my throat.
Just one, I fight down the rest and wrestle control over my quaking heart. If Reaper is going to die, I don’t want the last thing he might see or hear from me to be uncontrollable crying. I can cry after he’s dead.
The minutes crawl by like wounded animals, each second stretching into an eternity of watching Reaper's chest barely rise and fall. My fingernails dig crescents into my palms as I count his breaths, terrified that each one might be his last. The emergency vehicles have mostly passed now, their sirens fading into the distance, leaving us in this tomb of shadows and despair.
Tank stands like a sentinel, his massive frame blocking part of the alley mouth, his eyes scanning the street beyond. Diesel hasn't moved from Reaper's side, one hand still pressed against his throat, monitoring that thread-thin pulse that's the only thing keeping my world from completely shattering.
Then Tank's phone buzzes.
The sound cuts through the heavy silence like a gunshot. Tank pulls the device from his pocket, glances at the screen, and answers without saying hello.
I strain to hear the conversation over the distant wail of sirens and the thundering of my heartbeat, but the voice on the other end is just an indistinct murmur. Tank's responses are clipped, monosyllabic grunts that tell me nothing.
"Yeah."
"How long?"
"Copy that."
The call lasts maybe thirty seconds before Tank ends it and slides the phone back into his pocket. When he turns to face us, something in his expression has shifted. There's still that hard, dangerous edge, but underneath it I glimpse something that might be hope.
"It's done. They're ready," Tank says, his voice cutting through the darkness with military precision.
He jerks his head toward Diesel. "Pick him up. We move now."
Diesel doesn't hesitate. He slides his arms under Reaper's limp form with surprising gentleness, cradling him like he's made of spun glass. A soft moan escapes Reaper's lips as he's lifted, and my heart lurches. It's the first sound he's made since the warehouse, and I don't know if it's a good sign or a death rattle.
Tank's stony gaze finds mine. "You can come with us if you want, as long as you keep your fucking mouth shut and do exactly what I tell you. Otherwise, you can fuck off and find your own way home." His voice drops to a deadly whisper again. "But nothing—and I mean nothing—is going to stop me from doing everything I can for Reaper. Are we clear?"
I nod frantically, not trusting my voice. Wild horses couldn't drag me away from Reaper's side now.
"Good. Stay close, stay quiet, and try not to get us all killed."
Tank turns and melts into the deeper shadows of the alley. Diesel follows, moving with surprising stealth for such a big man carrying a body. I fall in behind them, my feet finding the patches of darkness between the scattered streetlight that filters down from the main road.
We move like ghosts through a maze of interconnected alleys, ducking under fire escapes and skirting around dumpsters that reek of rotting food and human desperation. The further we go, the more the sounds of the chaos behind us fade into a distant rumble, like thunder from a storm that's moved on to terrorize someone else.
My legs feel like jelly, but I force myself to keep up. Every few seconds I catch glimpses of Reaper's pale face in Diesel's arms, and each time my heart clenches tighter. His head lolls against Diesel's chest, and in the shifting shadows I can't tell if he's breathing.
Tank moves with the silent efficiency of a predator, leading us through what seems like an endless labyrinth of narrow passages and forgotten corners of the city. Left turn, right turn, straight for fifty yards, then another sharp left. I lose track of where we are, my sense of direction completely shot. All I know is we're moving away from the warehouse, away from the sirens, away from any chance of conventional help.
But Tank said, ‘They're ready.’ Ready for what? Ready who? The questions burn in my throat, but his earlier threat keeps my mouth sealed shut.
We emerge from a narrow passage between two crumbling brick buildings, and suddenly we're standing at the edge of a different street entirely. The sounds of emergency vehicles are barely audible now, just a faint whisper of chaos from what feelslike another world. Streetlights cast pools of sickly yellow light across cracked asphalt, and the air smells different here — less like smoke and gunshot, more like urban decay and forgotten dreams.
Tank holds up a hand, signaling us to stop. He peers around the corner of the building, scanning the empty street with those predator eyes of his. After what feels like an eternity, he motions us forward.
