Drink Deep - Chloe Neill [79]
I cursed him—loudly—and stomped on his foot, but McKetrick’s barrel at my chin was a pretty good deterrent for more violence.
“Put her in the vehicle,” McKetrick said. “We’ll take her back to the facility.”
Seeing “the facility” would definitely help me close McKetrick’s operations, but it seemed unlikely I’d ultimately survive the visit. Getting into that car was a death sentence, so I fought with all my might. I squirmed in the goon’s arms, and as he struggled to keep me upright, shifted my weight and kicked out at McKetrick’s gun. It flew from his hand. He immediately went after it.
The goon’s grip loosened in the chaos, and with a quick back kick to the jewels and a low roundhouse that connected squarely, I put him flat on his back.
“That’s one of my favorite moves,” I told him, thinking of a conversation Ethan and I’d had. Too bad I was fighting this one solo.
“Get her,” McKetrick said, having plucked up the gun a few feet away and begun walking back to me, arms outstretched.
I turned to run and ran squarely into goon number two. I looked up at him, smiled a little, and offered another below-the-belt kick. This one was smart enough to anticipate the move. He blocked it, but he wasn’t the first man who’d blocked one of my kicks. I ducked a punch, and while I was down pounded a fist into his shin. When he hopped in pain, I jumped up and executed a picture-perfect crescent kick that put him on the ground.
That was two goons on the ground with well-executed kicks, but I didn’t even have time to enjoy the victory before a jab to my kidney put me on the ground again.
I looked behind me.
McKetrick stood there, gun outstretched, arm shaking with obvious fury.
“I have had it with you,” he said, trigger finger shaking.
After being beaten down by Celina on another rainy night, I’d made a promise to myself. So I stood up and gazed back at him, forcing myself to look calm—and locking my legs so they didn’t tremble.
“If you’re going to stake me,” I told him, “you’ll do it while looking me in the eye.” I prepared myself for the shock: to feel the sharp sting of splinters if he happened to miss my heart, or to lose myself completely if his aim was true. I was brave enough to admit that either end was a possibility.
He extended the gun toward my chest, just above my heart.
I tried one final ploy. “I appreciate this, you know.”
I watched him fight the urge, but he still asked the question. “Appreciate what?”
“What you’re doing.” I took a miniscule step forward, pushing my chest into the muzzle of the gun. “Making me a martyr. I mean, I get that you’ll have to make up some tale about how I tried to hurt you and you saved the city of Chicago from me.” I lowered my voice a bit. “But the supernaturals will know, McKetrick. The vampires. The shifters. They like me. And they won’t believe you.”
I stood up on tiptoes and looked him in the eye. “They’ll find you.”
Funny thing about anger—it could help you, or it could hurt you. It could ruin your composure, and make you blink.
McKetrick blinked.
“You bitch,” he said, teeth gritted. “I will not let you ruin this city.” The gun wavered, shaking in his hand just a bit. I took the opportunity, striking up beneath the gun and pushing it out of his hand. It flew through the air and skittered across the concrete.
He dived for it.
I could give credit where credit was due: McKetrick was bigger and brawnier than me. But I was faster.
I got there before he did, scraped fingers against asphalt to ensure the gun was safely in hand, and by the time he reached me, turned it on him.
His eyes widened. “You are ruining this city.”
“Yeah, you said that. I’d like to point out, though, that vamps aren’t pulling over civilians and threatening them, nor are we pointing guns in their faces.”
He growled, spit out a few more curses, and moved to his knees. “Does this make you feel powerful? With me down on my knees before you like some sycophantic human?”
“No. And you know why not?” I gave him