Page 112 of The Viper
“Don’t test me.”
“Go ahead,” I said, my voice shaking but steady. “Shoot me here. In front of the cameras, the cops, half the crew. They’ll see your face. They’ll run it on every channel by morning. You can’t get away.”
“That’s what you think. I know people, too. By morning, I’ll be drinking margaritas on a beach.
A voice shouted from behind us. “Drop it!”
Franklin. God, bless his stubborn producer instincts. He stood at the end of the hall, a flashlight raised like a weapon.
The man spun, firing. Franklin dove behind the corner, swearing.
I ran.
The cuffs clanged as I sprinted into the next room, every nerve screaming. I had to get to a window. Two more shots rang out, the air splitting beside me. Something tore across my shoulder—a hot, slicing pain.
I stumbled, but didn’t fall. The sirens were closer now, the wail building.
Then he caught me again. He grabbed the chain between the cuffs, yanking me backward into the same spot where I’d kissed Benji on film two days before. His breath was ragged, desperate.
“Stop!” I gasped. “It’s over!”
“Not for me,” he said.
He pressed the gun to my chest.
Time slowed. I could hear my heartbeat, feel the throb of blood from my shoulder, smell the faint reek of gunpowder and adrenaline in his sweat.
In that moment, everything crystallized—the fear, the fury, the love. Lucas’s face flashed in my mind: the quiet confidence, the way his eyes softened when he looked at me.
I wasn’t going to die as someone’s damsel.
I brought my knee up hard, catching him in the ribs. He grunted, grip faltering, and I swung my cuffed hands up with everything I had, the steel cuff connecting with his jaw. He staggered back, dazed.
I turned and ran again—but he recovered faster than I expected.
“Stop running, bitch.”
I spun just as he raised the gun.
And then?—
The heavy sound of boots pounded into the room.
“Drop it!” a voice bellowed. Deep. Commanding.
Lucas.
He had come for me.
He was here.
38
LUCAS
Icame through the doorway with my pistol raised, my heartbeat steady despite the adrenaline flooding my veins. The scene registered in fragments—Lexi against the wall, blood on her shoulder, terror and fury blazing in her eyes. And him. Hank Singleton. The fake aviator. Gun pressed to her chest like he'd already won.
"Drop it!" I barked, my voice cutting through the chaos.
