He went still and blood seeped from his skull. Stumbling and gurgling, he fell to the floor, eyes going dead.

Fuck!

A couple of our men stood to return fire. Thank God for the good guys with guns.

Shots rang out and I plugged my ears, hoping to shield my hearing as James pulled me to the ground and back to the wall.

“Get in here,” his voice was low before he stood to return fire at the gunfight that broke out in the room.

Crouched in the corner holding my box, he opened a small exit path in the wall and shoved me through.

He let off a few more shots before his magazine ran out and he needed to reload. He dropped the magazine and fished out his other one. Before he had it in his gun, a shot hit him in the shoulder, sending him to the ground.

I looked at him, knowing he’d be a goner if I didn’t do something.

“James!” I called out.

Fuck it. I made my way back into the room where the men in masks were taking out my guys one by one, and if I wasn’t quick, James would be next.

I grabbed his good arm and pulled for him to come with me. He finally got his magazine into the gun, pointing and shooting, nailing two of the guys coming for us. Pulling on him again, we made it out into the adjoined room.

He held his bad arm. “The exit is this way. Let’s get you out of here. I have somewhere we can go.”

Shaking off the gunshot, he held onto me tightly, pulling me through until we were out into the trees.

Cars were on fire.

What the fuck is happening?

“Come on.” He scooped me up and started running.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

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About the Author

Faye Holland is a Texas-based author obsessed with the dark and twisty. She writes romance that might mess with your head. Otherwise, she's fueled by coffee, cats, and a burning need to rant about books. Approach with caution (and maybe a reading list).

Read more at Faye Holland’s site.