Page 8 of Bad Moon Rising
“I have amnesia,” she said in Italian, and held up her wrist to show off the tattoo. “Maybe you know what this means.”
“Roman?” His face paled. He grabbed her wrist to run a finger over the blue letters inked into her skin. “That’s my name.”
Chapter Two
Pop. Pop.Pop.
Gunfire.
He pulled her close, up against a wall as frightened people rushed around them. “We’re going to figure this out. But I can’t leave until I get what I came for. You better hope you’re not a distraction to keep me away from it. If so, and I find out you’re against me, I’ll kill you.”
“Why is your name on my wrist?” Nova asked, grinding her molars in frustration at the lack of answers he provided. She pushed against him for space, not that he budged.
“Did you hear what I said?” He was so close that each word, each breath, tickled her cheek.
“Your threats don’t scare me.”
He said into her ear, “How did you know how to find me?”
“I was told to do this…to be here, but I don’t know who sent me.”
“You were blackmailed into finding me?”
“Yes…no. My head.” She closed her eyelids against the pain.
“We’re going to sort this, but later. Do exactly as I say. If you don’t—”
“Enough with the threats. I’m not going anywhere.”
He grabbed her hand and led her against the flow of terrified people who stomped their feet and elbowed and shoved her sides. He didn’t lose his hold on her.
More gunfire. More screams. More bodies pushing.
He seemed undaunted.
If she were an ordinary person, the shooting would panic her like all these other people, but a sense of detached calm descended. Her brain argued the gunshots came from near the bar, not directed at her. The fight involved a mixture of guns, knives, and fists.
“Who’s your target?” she asked.
“Man in the back corner with the skull neck tattoo who’s trapped behind the bar. You stay here. Don’t move.” He maneuvered her next to the DJ stage. “If you leave, I’ll find you.”
“If I leave, I’ll disappear.” She glared a hard-ass threat right back at him. “I came here to findyouand regain my memory. I’m not about to ditch you.”
His nostrils flared. “Stay.”
He whirled and stalked into the fray toward his target without an ounce of fear.
Two men attacked him. He dodged a knife and slammed a fist into one hostile, which threw the guy into a column. The second guy managed to land a solid punch into his face only to be met with an equally forceful throw to land on top of his compatriot. Three more attacked him.
Roman fought well. Trained. Great confidence. Yet, it almost seemed as if he were restrained and not applying his full strength.
Skull Throat watched Roman with laser focus. He rotated something odd between his fingers. Looked like a vial. A strange sensation slid over her—a combination of resignation over what she had to do and intuitive knowledge that the vial held something no one in this club could handle, especially her.
She concentrated on all involved in the fight to sort out motivations and intents. Some of this she’d seen in the vision of cheap-cologne guy. Oh my God, she knew what the man in front of her was going to do. She needed to make her move…
Now.
Thighs pumping, she sprinted into the action. As expected, a lithe man turned with his serrated knife, intent on her. As his knife entered its striking arc, she went into a slide, bracing for a nasty impact as her side landed on something sharp, probably broken glass. She took out his legs with her momentum. Up in a second, she stomped his wrist with the heel of her boot, hitting the nerves so his hand involuntarily opened. She relieved him of the knife and jabbed it deep into his chest.
