Chapter 34

Sleep eventually came for me after a fucking terrible stomach ache and a migraine to match. I managed to even make it to my bed this time.

Still, I'm woken up by another nightmare. This one has nothing to do with the Marines.

It's all about Clara.

Failing her, letting her mentor die, I can see it all, and my subconscious is having a field day with all of this fresh material.

I snag my phone from the nightstand. It's only ten o'clock, so there's no harm in getting up and entertaining myself with a movie until I get tired again.

Padding out to the living room, I swipe through to the internet on my cell, looking at the last tab I had open.

Therapists near me. Thinking about stopping drinking before that. Ugh, you are such a loser.

But as much as I hate Dom's damn advice and how accurate it was, I want this with her.

Nearly without thinking, I go to the cupboard above the microwave. At the very front is a box I've been holding on to for about two weeks now.

"Diamonds are great and all, but they don't look like anything. They're just clear."

"Then what do you like?"

"My birthstone. The emerald. Rich and green, and hey, it matches my eyes."

The memory surges in my mind as I pull the ring box down and open it up. The large emerald beauty, cut like a rectangle, twinkles up at me even in the dimmed lights I have on in the kitchen.

"Emeralds. I remembered, Clara. I fucking remembered."

I'm not sure I can even use it at this point, but again, my annoying brother is right. I need to be the person she can rely on, and that means big fucking changes.

Slipping the box into my pocket for some reason, I hang my head with a sigh.

"Drink? Drink."

Having looked up that you can't just stop drinking cold turkey, I go to the fridge for water to mix with a bit of vodka.

It should keep the symptoms at bay and actually hydrate me, which, you know, alcohol isn't great for.

I'm not looking to die from withdrawal, though, and I can't really get into a clinic in the middle of the night.

Early night.

The drink seems to do the trick, and tiredness starts to set back in. I plop down on the couch, content to pull up YouTube and watch some of those visualizer videos that can be so Zen-like.

I click one on and start to drift away to the swirling geometric shapes and colors.

You're like a damn baby, getting soothed by some moving lights.

I know that voice is just being a dick, so I actually try to ignore it for once.

I'm doing okay, but then I hear something near my door. There should be zero sound coming from there, so I hurry to my bedroom, slipping on my shoes with the sweatpants I have on and yanking on a tee.

Knowing better than to keep a gun in the house when I have depressive, drunken episodes, I go for the baseball bat I keep in the closet.

Never too safe, right?

There isn't a follow-up to the sound, so I grip the bat as I stalk through the hall to check out the front door again.

As I get within eyeshot of it, I see the small plastic tube sticking through the bottom.

There's a nearly invisible gas seeping out of it.

Fuck.

I rush back to my bedroom, grab another tee, and bring it to my bathroom sink to get it wet.

It'll be harder for anything to get through that way.

Securing it around my face, I go back toward the hall. Just as I reach a good vantage point, the door busts open.

How the hell did these fuckers get in? God, I hope the guards downstairs are okay.

Sinking back toward my bedroom and taking up a position on the other side of the door, I make them come to me, hiding just out of eyesight.

I peer through the crack in the door jam, keeping an eye out for the first assailant.

He comes quick enough, and I tag the gas mask he's wearing. Clearly, they know better than to enter without one for a while.

I'd like that, please.

The floor creaks right at the threshold—like it always does—and I suck in a breath as the guy steps forward.

When I have a clear shot, I swing the bat with everything I have, landing the wood right in the fucker's neck.

He goes down hard, sputtering for air. I steal the mask off his face, securing it on my own.

The gas hasn't flooded this area yet, so he'll have a bit of time before it gets him, but I'm not taking any chances.

Hell, they could still be pumping the shit in if they have masks.

"Over there!"

"Shit." I keep my voice low, but I know the guy's fall wasn't exactly quiet.

I'm not surprised they pegged a location, so I hurry into the hall before they can round the corner and see me.

Ducking into the laundry room, I hope to keep playing this hide-and-go-smack game of tag.

The newest asshole in my view is also wearing a gas mask. And he's got on thicker body armor and a set of goggles.

He's clearly more prepared than the last guy was. He might be a higher rank judging from that, too.

The Cobras appear to have better resources than I expected. Worse, this attire and the gas usage speak to either stolen or bargained supplies from the authorities.

My heart rate is up, but I'm keeping my body still, relying on those old military skills as I wait for this guy to walk past.

The smell on the inside of this mask is fucking terrible, too. It's old rubber and the previous owner's aftershave.

Nausea crawls up the back of my throat at the combination, and then something hits me.

If these assholes are here, they're looking for Clara, too. Dammit, I don't know where she is.

A heavy footfall pulls me out of my head, and I flick my eyes back up to see the guy standing right at the laundry room door.

He isn't passing by. He's standing there and peering into the master room, calling out for his damn partner.

"Rodrigo! Report!"

Even if the asshole is still conscious, this Rodrigo fella isn't answering. Too much throat trauma.

Go on, go check on him.

The guy takes another step forward and then another. When I can finally get behind him, I sneak out, deadly silent.

I wrap the baseball bat around the guy's neck in a flash of movement.

Speed is the most crucial asset I have right now. That and stealth.

Squeezing the bat against him with everything I have, the guy tries to free himself. He shuffles us backward until my back hits the wall.

He tries to slam me into the drywall over and over, hoping to dislodge me.

I keep that bat pressed tight to his neck, suffocating him until he finally passes out, and I can drop him to the floor.

Quieter this time, I kneel at the downed assailant, pulling off his mask and goggles.

I don't want him finding them, so I put them into the washing machine, placing them in the metal bin gently.

More footsteps, and not just one person; I'm going to have a lot more company soon.

I swing myself on the doorframe, plastering my back against the wall of the bathroom across the hall.

I don't want to stick to one location. It's too easy to get pinned down like that.

"This way! Rodrigo and Marks aren't answering their coms. Must be down."

The man calling out orders doesn't seem as concerned as I'd like. When you're worried about your crew, it's something to use as leverage.

This is just a job to these fuckers. If any one of them dies, it'll be no skin off their noses.

"Get that fucker over here." The deep, angry voice that rattles through the air next is one I recognize.

"You."

My voice is a whisper in the darkness as more feet come down the hallway and toward my bedroom.

It's the Cobra from the hospital, the one who fucking threatened Clara.

Anger roars through my gut like acid, burning and sapping my brain of any reason.

That piece of shit needs to go down. I'm chomping at the bit to move, to attack these guys, but I'm woefully outnumbered.

They aren't coming down the hall one at a time. I can't pick them off. This is going to be ugly.

But I'm going down swinging, if anything. A fucking bat, to be exact.

I can't stay here in the bathroom. The group is circling around to go back down the hall.

Waiting until the last one goes by, I slip out from behind the open door and yank him into the room.

His head meets the sink with good force, and I'm able to knock him out quickly. But these guys are more professional, it would seem, and I hear their footsteps stop.

"Where's Benny?"

Whoever this one is comes in my direction, and I slip behind the door again, but as I go to yank him into the room, he elbows me hard in the gut.

Pain flares through my still recovering side, and I'm down on my knee in a flash.

This guy has a gun, and the weapon gets pointed in my direction.

"Get up! You're going with us."

I slowly stagger up, exaggerating the look of my injury. When the guy takes a step forward to grab my outstretched arm, I freeze.

Grabbing his hand, I twist backward, smashing his fist into his own face. He stumbles backward, and I snag the gun, knocking him in the head with the butt.

I'm doing good, but then there are three more, and while I know they're not truly looking to kill me—at least not yet—the fuckers have no problem opening fire to injure me.

Narrowly missing two shots as I shove them down the hall, knocking a guy over by launching his buddy into him, I'm back on my feet only to have the butt of a different gun smashed down on my spine.

It's sharp and strong enough to knock me down, dazing me. My vision is a little fuzzy as I realize that one of the shots clipped my leg.

Blood oozes down my sweats. Fuck. That's not good.

Too many are on me after that, and then I hear that asshole from the warehouse.

"Get his damn mask off. End this."

The rubber protection is torn from my face, and I can't breathe, even if I do try it for a bit.

The gas seeps into my lungs, and I quickly start losing consciousness.

I'm still scrambling when the guy kneels by my face and lifts up my head with the muzzle of his gun.

"Yeah, you're some tough guy, huh? Well, you ain't shit without backup." The pistol smacks across my cheek, and I fall to the floor.

Warehouse Dickhead steps even closer, whispering into my ear as the blackness claims me.

"We got your bitch, too."