Chapter3

Vincent asked me to come with him to the docks to "handle some business."

Cecilia was in the car too.

He said she needed to get familiar with some "family affairs."

I didn't ask questions. I knew there was no point.

By the time we pulled into Pier Three, it was completely dark.

Too quiet. You couldn't even hear the waves.

My fingers tightened unconsciously. "Vincent, something's wrong here."

He glanced out the window, his hand already moving toward his waist. "Maybe."

The word had barely left his mouth when gunfire exploded.

Automatic rifles. Continuous bursts. Bullets hammered our vehicle like rain, the bulletproof glass instantly spiderwebbing with white cracks.

"Get down!" Vincent roared, shoving Cecilia's head down. He'd already drawn his gun.

Our car surged forward, trying to break through the encirclement.

But a cargo truck suddenly charged out from the intersection ahead, blocking our path sideways.

The driver slammed the brakes. We all crashed forward into the front seats.

"Get out on the left! Find cover!" Vincent kicked the door open, pulling Cecilia out and rolling with her. I scrambled out after them, gravel and stray bullets kicking up around my feet.

Gunmen kept emerging from the tops of shipping containers, from the shadows.

Our guards were returning fire, but we were badly outnumbered.

Vincent crouched behind a cargo container, firing back from the side.

That's when I saw it. Above and to the side, a gunman's silhouette flickered at the edge of a container.

His barrel was aimed directly at Vincent's back.

I didn't have time to think.

I lunged forward, using all my strength to slam into him and knock him aside.

We both hit the ground. Almost simultaneously, I felt something strike my left shoulder with tremendous force. Then searing pain. Warm liquid instantly soaked through my clothes.

I couldn't catch my breath. The world was buzzing.

Vincent rolled over quickly, taking out the gunman with a few precise shots.

He looked back at me, his eyes sweeping over my bleeding shoulder. He paused.

That's when Cecilia let out a short, sharp scream. "Vincent! I'm scared!" Her eyes rolled back and she collapsed softly in his direction, landing right at his feet.

The roar of an engine grew closer.

Mark, Vincent's most trusted bodyguard, came charging over in a reinforced SUV, skidding to a stop beside us.

The window rolled down. Mark's face was covered in sweat, his voice hoarse as he shouted: "Boss! Get in! There's too many of them, we can't hold! This car can only take two more people, hurry!"

Only two more people.

Vincent looked down at the unconscious Cecilia. Then he looked up at me.

I was trying to push myself up with my uninjured hand.

Blood dripped from my fingertips.

I looked into his eyes.

That second felt very long.

Then he bent down, slipping his arms under Cecilia's knees and back, lifting her up steadily.

His movements didn't hesitate for a second.

"Take us to Safe House Seven." His voice was decisive as he spoke to Mark.

Then he turned to the two other bodyguards who were still firing: "You stay. Protect Evira. Find a way to get her out."

He didn't even look at me again, climbing into the back seat with Cecilia in his arms.

The door slammed shut.

The SUV's tires shrieked, and it shot forward like an arrow, smashing through obstacles in its path, quickly disappearing into the maze of shipping containers.

I slumped to the ground, the pain in my shoulder turning numb.

Deafening gunfire filled my ears, along with the angry shouts of the bodyguards firing beside me.

Smoke and dust hung in the air. Through the chaos, I stared in the direction where the SUV had vanished.

He was gone.

When bullets were flying and he could only take one person, he chose Cecilia.

He left me here. Left me to luck, left me to the guns.

A stray bullet hit the container beside me with a piercing clang.

The bodyguard grabbed my arm and dragged me backward. "Ma'am! We have to move!"

I let him drag me. The wound hurt, but not as much as the completely dead, frozen cold in my heart.

The last bit of hope, the last self-deception, burned away completely in the exhaust fumes of that departing car.

The bodyguard shoved me into the back seat of a bullet-riddled car. The engine groaned under the strain.

The enemy was closing in.

And I knew that from this moment on, I only had myself.