Fear, Quinn discovered, tasted as wickedly rotten as bile and as cloying as drying blood.
“Find Graham, Kane.” Quinn left the coffee jug, hurrying down the hill. He’d cut through an alley, knowing it would lead him right back to the building’s underground garage where he’d come from. “Don’t let him be dead, Kane. Please.”
“Q, just stay—you’re not staying, are you?” Kane sighed, more resigned than surprised.
“Just find Graham. Save him, Kane,” Quinn replied, turning down the alley. “I’m going to Rafe and make sure he’s safe.”
HIS HEAD hurt. Hell, his eyelashes hurt, especially when Rafe blinked to filter out the bright light shining down on him. The white glow flickered, stuttering between a light and dark that had nothing to do with his lashes, lids, or any other part of his eyes he had any control over. Someone was whimpering nearby, and Rafe hoped it wasn’t him.
Feeling around in his bloodied mouth with the tip of his tongue, he deduced it couldn’t be him whimpering, because his jaw felt too swollen to move.
“God damn it. Shit,” a man swore. Nearby, a thump on the floor sent shock waves through Rafe’s aching head. “I hit him too hard. Who the hell is going to believe this * could hit this guy like that? Damn it!”
The sniveling grew louder, then another thump, the sound of bone hitting flesh, and whimpering faded to small hiccups. Rafe bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from groaning, then risked peeking out from under his lashes. He couldn’t see a damned thing but the hall’s marbled floor and a single black boot.
Pain ratcheted up his spine when Rafe tried to move his hips, a slight roll and hopefully not enough to alert the boot’s owner. He needn’t have worried. Apparently Boots was off in his own little world, ranting on about how he had everything planned but now things were ruined—he was ruined—because he’d hit Rafe too hard.
Rafe definitely didn’t see the need to argue that particular point.
Not since it felt like Boots’d dislocated every single bone in Rafe’s body.
The thumping continued, stomping off a few feet away, and Rafe risked opening his eyes another half inch, hoping to get a good idea of what was going on. What he saw did nothing to calm his nerves.
As front halls went, it was a fairly simple design, a rectangle of marble, wood, and a couple of waxy-leafed plants Rafe’d assumed were fake until he’d come across someone from maintenance watering them one day. One of the rectangle’s long sides was taken up by the two elevators keyed to reach the penthouse, with his front door on the other wall. Much longer than wide, the hall served its purpose for the most part, giving visitors someplace to stand until Rafe could open the door or providing a floor for him to dump his grocery bags on while he tried to find his keys.
And sadly without a hidden machine-gun turret. Once he got his shit together and Boots taken care of, he’d talk to the building about its lack of foresight in case of a hostage situation.
How long before he’d stop being a hostage and move on to being a murder victim, Rafe couldn’t say, but judging by how the skinny ’50s crooner looked as he lay slumped against one of the plasticky plants, things were going to escalate quickly.
It took Rafe a second to recognize Graham Merris, Quinn’s colleague from the photo he’d seen of them on Quinn’s phone. The name’d escaped him for a second but Rafe never forgot a nose, especially not one that looked as if it should have sat square in the middle of a Dark Arts instructor.
Engrossed in studying the gaunt-featured man, Rafe failed to see Boots coming back over until his vision filled with a layer of thick leather and sole. Slamming his eyes shut was out of the question, especially when Boots’s shadow stretched over him, cutting off any light he got from the hall’s sconces and skylight.
Rafe flipped over onto his back, trying not to let the aching creaks in his shoulder and neck distract him. Boots’s meaty hands grabbed at Rafe’s shirt, scrambling to get a hold before Rafe could wiggle away. Kicking up, Rafe connected with the man’s round, acne-pocked face, rippling his jowly cheek with a blow of his foot. Boots’s head snapped back, but instead of falling away, Rafe caught the sight of a blood rage forming in the man’s rheumy blue eyes, and his stomach sank, catching sight of the gun holstered to the man’s thick utility belt.