Page 218 of The Perfect Wrong

His jaw clenches.

His crazy eyes widen.

His hand lifts that glass over my skull, thick and punishing, more than enough to make sure I never wake up again if he strikes with all his might.

Then he starts muttering something furious in Spanish, his arm swinging down to end me, and—

The world explodes with sound as he twists, missing me, the glass shattering somewhere past my head.

There’s more light spilling in, the door opening wider, one of his minions panicked and yelling.

Another second and I hear footsteps pounding outside, further down the hall, men yelling and—are those gunshots?

Yes.

Fuck, yes.

I wait for Eladio to start barking orders, to forget I’m even there.

Only when he moves do Ilunge.

Honestly, it’s more of a frantic roll, the only thing I can manage with my hands and legs bound, throwing myself against the backs of his legs over broken bones and a skin of bruises.

It’s enough.

He doesn’t have time to scream to his chickenshit guards—if they aren’t all erupting from their holes to engage the extraction team—before he goes crashing down, banging his head against the narrow cell wall.

He falls against me, dazed and confused and swearing.

I like these odds.

I’m so far past pain I don’t even feel it when I use the only weapon I have, ramming my head into his throat, shoving him over those glass fragments until he sputters.

I’m sure if anyone else saw us, it would look like some fucked up performance art.

Joaquin mimes his agony in gasping silence.

His strength fades fast.

It doesn’t take more than sixty seconds to put him down when I’m on top, pushing down with all my might, growling like a wounded animal determined to survive.

Thank God I’m so much more than that now.

Thank Delia.

And I know I’ll spend the rest of my life doing that a few minutes later, listening breathlessly at the footsteps pounding toward me.

A huge man emerges in full tactical body armor and instantly starts grinning when the blinding light from his gun sweeps over us.

“Triton? Holy shitfire.” I recognize his thick Louisiana accent. Gabe, one of the senior security workhorses close to Strauss. “Is that—”

“Yeah. He’s still breathing. Just keeping him warm for you,” I say slowly, coughing several times. The blood tastes like coppery syrup in my mouth. “I’d have him tied up nice and tidy but my hands are a little occupied.”

“Shit,” he whispers, shaking his head as he steps toward me. “Hang on, we’re gonna get you the hell outta here.”

* * *

I wakeup being pawed at by the medics crawling over me.

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