Page 81 of Enemy
[m here. Behaind the to garajes by the fild]
My heart beats like mad, and a wide smile erupts on my face. I might see him so soon? Right now? My feet start moving before my brain even processes the information.
But then it kicks into gear. What is he doing here? And worse still, ‘by the garages’? That’s where the bare-knuckle fights are about to take place. If he’s found there, the Butchers will rip him apart.
I slow down to type on my phone. [GET OUT OF THERE. Meet me by the lake!]
No answer.
I crash from heights of joy and anticipation into a pit of terror. I stuff my phone back into my pocket and dash for the door, leaping past the concrete steps leading outside. The buildings making up our compound are stark shapes on the backdrop of the moonlit sky, and my gaze drifts off toward the two garages, because that’s where he is. He must have come to see me, and as idiotic of an idea as that is, I can’t be angry with him.
He’s just so… I love him. I fucking love him.
Close by, a group of women laugh, smoking cigarettes on impromptu benches made of concrete road barriers. They seem to have no care in the world, and one even whistles at me drunkenly as I pass.
I turn to them, faking a smile. “Has the fighting started?”
She nods, and in the glow of the cigarette, her features become bloodthirsty. “Yes, behind the building.”
Just as she points, what was a buzz of voices erupts into the yelling of many men and Irun.
“Get him!” I hear through the thudding of blood in my head.
I recognize Road even as a shadowy figure bursting from behind the corner. Tall, broad-shouldered, he even runs in a way I would never mistake. Just as he dashes into the reach of a streetlight, the crowd of men spills into the alley too, chasing him as if they were wolves on a hunt.
I join the pack, even though it means I’ll have to sink my teeth into my brethren.
Chapter 32
Road
Thiswasamistake.
I should have stayed away, hidden on the roof of the barn close by, or watched the Butchers from the cornfield, crouched between the tall plants, like I was meant to. But the letter I wrote was burning a hole in my pocket until I couldn’t wait. Between Clyde no longer reading my messages and avoiding me in person, my only chance was to somehow find him, press the letter into his hands, and run.
Now it’s disintegrating in my mouth as I chew the paper, running from the pack of Hell’s Butchers who are out for my blood. The ink has a tart aftertaste, but I kill it by gulping down two sips of vodka, and the message scrapes down my gullet, gone for good.
Shame. I put my whole fucking heart into it. But if I end up dead, it can’t be found on me.
The letter is the least of my problems. I’m being hunted, and the yelling behind me is a primal cacophony of beasts hungry for my flesh and blood. Thinking on my feet, I jump over a cement barrier keeping cars out of the alleyway and stuff a bandana into the bottle of vodka. I’ve not seen Clyde in the crowd, so I say my prayers, light it on fire and send the Molotov cocktail at the Butchers running my way like a crowd of zombies.
Someone shrieks, but the shadows slow down as I dash across the very middle of the Butcher compound. Most of them will be too busy drinking and posturing to realize they’ve been infiltrated until I reach the bike hidden in the nearby bushes and ride away,leaving them all in the dust. With no time to waste on reroutes, I head straight for the group of women chilling close to the bar entrance. They scatter as I leap over the concrete block they’re sitting on, and land that bit closer to my salvation. The tension in one of my knees feels too strong at first, but I propel myself farther and run, with the bushes ahead as the only thing on my mind.
At moments like this, I’m reminded that my body has been broken in too many places to count just last year, and I’m not as nimble as I used to be. I could try shooting back into the crowd of bodies in black leather vests, but they’ve seen me. If I kill one of them, I’ll be on the hit list even if I manage to drive off.
A baseball bat slams into me from the side like a viper striking out of the shadows. It knocks all breath out of me, and I’m pushed off my course, unable to keep my balance. The pain soon turns into a numbness in my flank, but as I attempt to punch him back, Puck’s twisted face emerges from the shadows. He slams the bat into my thigh. I collapse with a choked cry, and frantic thoughts bolt through my mind like a pack of terrified dogs. My gun’s right there—I can use it—but if I shoot Puck in front of everyone, they’ll rip me apart. I attempt grabbing the bat but still collapse to my knees as my aching leg gives out, and Puck kicks me flat to my back.
The shadows and lights whirl around me. I try to back away, because my bike is hidden so damn close, but I won’t reach it before this bastard crushes my skull.
He straightens up and lifts the bat like it’s a mallet and I’m the base of a high striker at a fairground. The manic grin on his face brings out the madness in his eyes. My heart stops when I realize this isn’t a bluff. He’s about to swing the bat down.
A shot rings out from the crowd that was on my heels, and to my astonishment, a bullet goes through the back of Puck’s skull. It comes right out of his forehead along with a gush of blood and brain matter.
I don’t have time to process any of this. Puck’s lifeless body is falling on me, but I still glance at the Butchers in confusion.
There he is. Clyde. My fucking guardian angel.
So I guess we’re not holding back on the bullets anymore.
