Page 6 of Ranger’s Protection

Demon. The Vipers' president. He wants me alive. The thought is somehow worse than wanting me dead. More crashes. Doors being kicked in. Room 21. Room 22. Getting closer. I can track their progress by sound, each impact making me flinch harder than the last.

Then I hear Graham's voice, calm and steady: "You're in the wrong room."

A beat of silence.

Then laughter. Mean laughter. The kind that says they know exactly which room they want.

"Wrong room?" one of them says, a voice like gravel, rough from too many cigarettes. "That's funny. Because I'm pretty sure we saw you and a woman heading upstairs about ninety seconds ago."

"She left. Fire escape."

"There's no fire escape on this floor."

"Then I guess she jumped."

More laughter. But it's forced now. Uncertain. They don't know if he's lying or not, and it's bothering them.

Good. Let them be bothered. Let them hesitate.

"Step aside," a different voice says. Colder. Higher-pitched than the gravel voice. The kind of voice that's used to being obeyed. I recognize it, the man with the snake tattoo. The one who killed David. "We're coming in either way."

"No," Graham says.

The next sound is impact. Someone hitting something hard. A grunt of pain that might be Graham or might be one of them. Scuffling. The heavy thud of bodies colliding.

Fighting.

I curl tighter in the tub, my hands still pressed over my mouth, tears streaming down my face that I didn't realize had started. This is my fault. All of it. If I hadn't witnessed the murder, if I hadn't reported it, if I'd just minded my own business like everyone told me to…

The bathroom door rattles.

Someone's trying the handle.

I stop breathing entirely.

"Locked," a voice says from just outside, the gravel voice, too close. Right on the other side of this flimsy door with its joke of a lock.

"Break it down," the snake-tattoo man commands.

No. No no no no—

The first kick hits the door so hard the entire frame shakes. The second loosens the lock. The third—

Gunshot.

The sound is deafening, impossibly loud in the enclosed space of this terrible motel room. I scream before I can stop myself, the sound muffled by my hands but still audible.

Definitely audible.

"She's in there!" someone shouts.

More gunshots. Three. Four. I've lost count. Something heavy hits the floor outside the bathroom. The crashes and thuds blend into chaos that my brain can't parse, can't organize into anything that makes sense.

I'm going to die in a bathtub in a cheap motel bathroom. The thought is so absurd I almost laugh. Almost. If I start laughing I won't stop, and if I don't stop I'll completely lose it, and I can't afford to lose it right now.

Count. Just count.

One. Two. Three gunshots.