Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
My hand locks onto the back of the nearest dining chair, and I whip it backward, slamming the wooden frame straight into his chest. The impact sends him stumbling into the coffee table, the glass cracking beneath his weight, right where Spikezilla and Needles were sitting only a few minutes ago. But he doesn’t stay down—men like this never do, they enjoy coming back for more.
Ripping the broken chair leg free from the splintered frame, I swing as hard as I can, barely giving him a chance to find his balance before the wood connects with the side of his skull. A sickening crack fills the air as his eyes roll back and he collapses across the table.
But I barely spare him a glance, all too aware of the third assassin quickly closing in, and before I can figure out a game plan, he fires.
I dive, and the shot snaps past my shoulder, plunging into the wall as I hastily scramble behind the couch, adrenaline flooding my veins. The footsteps are closing in, and as I search for something to save my life, I find the frying pan I’d just used to take out the first guy, and my hand snaps toward it, grasping the handle without skipping a beat.
The assassin rounds the couch, rifle already lowering toward me, and I explode upward, the frying pan driving straight into his throat, and I scoff as he drops hard. “Not today, asshole.”
The sound he makes is wet and broken as the air wooshes from his lungs. He folds forward, choking, and I wrench the rifle from his grip before he even hits the ground, turning it on him and letting off a clean shot straight between the eyes.
The room falls silent again, except for the sound of my racing heart, but only for half a second before gunfire erupts through the wall.
The sound slams into my chest like a punch. Raiden.
More shots crack through the plaster, followed by the violent crash of furniture and the unmistakable sound of bodies hitting the floor. Someone screams—a woman—raw, guttural, cut off almost instantly, and I force myself to take a breath. He can more than handle himself. A slew of assassins breaking into his apartment—piece of cake.
Racing through my apartment, I madly search for every hidden weapon and shove them into the holsters on my favorite pants. Suddenly, I am very grateful that I’m actually wearing pants.
After grabbing one of my kitchen knives, I take off toward Raiden’s apartment, when the sound of shattering glass tears through my home, and another wave of trained killers is barricading me into my apartment.
“Fuck.”
There are heaps of them, pouring in from my bedroom and the front door, each one of them already locked and loaded on me, and instead of panicking about it like a little bitch, I simply get to work.
The first guy rushes at me, and when I grab him and yank him forward, it’s clear he doesn’t hold the same level of dedication to his training as I do. He stumbles, and I use the momentum of his fall to my advantage, angling his chin right down against the stone kitchen counter.
I crack his jaw without effort, and I don’t bother waiting to see the fallout as I simply move on to the next.
One after another, I dodge and weave their advances, some of them coming in pairs. I steal a gun off a woman and empty the magazine in seconds, taking out three with precision. Next door, the same chaos bleeds through the thin walls, but I can’t focus on that. I know Raiden can handle himself, so all that matters is getting out of here alive. Escaping an entire agency of assassins won’t be easy.
A blade whistles past my ear, close enough that I feel the air shift, and I spin and slam a saucepan into someone’s jaw so hard the metal handle bends. Teeth scatter across the kitchen floor as he collapses, and the pistol slips from his hand, skittering toward me.
I grab it before it stops moving, and for just a split second, things are easy again. Gunshots crack through the apartment as the fight spills from room to room. One man drops near the couch. Another crumples against the kitchen island. A third staggers backward into the wall, blood splattering across the white paint, before his body slides to the floor.
The air grows thick with the metallic smell of blood, and my living room turns into a war zone, furniture overturned and shredded by bullets, glass and wood littering every inch of the floor. Bodies pile up faster than I can process them. Every time one falls, another weapon appears—a knife, a pistol, another rifle—and I grab whatever hits the ground next.
I don’t count them. I don’t stop to think. I just keep moving because every time gunfire erupts through the wall next door, my chest cracks open a little more. I need him to be okay, because without him, what was the whole point?