The Triangle (Shape of Love Book 1) Page 23

  And I can see them out there. Skulking in the moonlight between trees. Every once in a while, I catch sight of a laser cutting through the branches.

  Who the fuck uses a laser sight in stealth mode, anyway?

  No one professional.

  Or they’re not actually in stealth mode.

  Because they’re here to scare us.

  Except they did just try to kill us, so just what the fuck is happening?

  I wait there in the stairwell for thirty eternal seconds, watching them. And then I make a decision. And I step out. Feet crunching over the glass shards. Eyes locked on the forest, waiting for one of them to see me. The other side of the room so far away.

  They don’t see me. They don’t even look my way. They think this part of the house is secure and what they’re mostly doing is regrouping and heading down the hill towards the lake.

  Did they come in by boat? Swim in like a SEAL team?

  Sneaky, sneaky fuckers. Because that’s how I’d have come. And I knew that. Every single time I looked out at that lake and marveled at the low-hanging mist. The choppy water. The walls of mountain surrounding it on three sides.

  I knew that’s how they’d come.

  I get to the other side of the house, the part I never made it to, and end up in another concrete hallway. Which I traverse quickly, and without much caution. I turn into the first room, a bedroom with a wall of glass, and almost shit myself when I realize this is ground level now and there’s a soldier ten feet away on the other side of the window.

  He looks at me. Perhaps catching my movement in some stray moonbeam. Perhaps not.

  He’s wearing a faceplate so I can’t see him. But he can sure as fuck see me. Because I can feel his gaze like heat when it lands on me. I can feel his stare behind that plate.

  And then he turns away. Starts walking. His gaze scanning the forest as he stalks along the side of the house.

  Or can he? See me? Maybe…

  The tactical side of my brain processes this and comes up with two possibilities.

  One. That faceplate is hiding infrared gear. I’m behind glass, which hides a heat signature because it’s reflective.

  Two. He’s not after me.

  I back out of the bedroom and creep along the hallway—no glass shards here so it’s a nice reprieve—and follow him. Looking into doorways as I pass bedroom after bedroom. Catching sight of his dark figure outside as he walks the perimeter of the house.

  We end up in a small living area. Three sides encased in glass, one of which is a door. One of those foldaway window doors that open up to an expansive deck.

  He’s coming up the stairs to the deck landing when I enter, so I scramble down to the floor and crawl, sniper-style, over to the couch. Just in case he can see me and we’re in the middle of a secret meeting or something.

  What? Christine, this isn’t a game, bitch. This guy is here to kill you.

  He opens the door and I hold my breath, my heart pounding so fast, so loud. For sure he can hear that.

  But he just steps inside, assault rifle at low ready.

  Which makes me pause.

  And then a tinny voice through the faceplate speaker says, “Christine.”

  You know that feeling in your gut when shit just got real? Well, I get that. I get that feeling so hard, so bad, I want to vomit.

  “Christine,” he hisses again.

  No.

  I swallow down the sick and shake my head.

  No.

  “Christine,” he repeats. This time louder. More urgency. “Jesus Christ. Where did you go?”

  I am not the reason this is happening.

  “Christine.” He traverses the room, out of sight for a few seconds as I silently scramble along the couch to keep us on opposite ends. And when I peek around the edge of the arm, his back is to me. He’s looking down the hallway, head tilted like a curious dog.

  I am the reason this is happening.

  Some part of me understands this. Knows this to be true.

  I just don’t remember it.

  But just because he’s not here to kill me doesn’t mean I’m not here to kill him.

  I position my bare feet on the smooth concrete floor, angle my body like an Olympic runner getting ready for a race, and don’t even think twice when I launch forward—feet slapping on the floor, arms reaching for his rifle—and I knock into him with the full weight of my body.

  He’s turning when this happens, so I hit him in the hip. His rifle does not leave his tight grip and I know, right then, this was a mistake. I’m not going to get that weapon. And the only way I get out now is if I run.

  So that’s what I do.

  I run.

  The whole time I’m darting through the door and out onto the deck. The whole time I’m running down the stairs, thump of tactical boots right behind me. The whole time I wait for the rifle to cut me in half. The whole time I wait for the bullets to the back.

  Because I deserve that. I deserve to go out this way.

  I am the traitor. I am the reason these people are here.

  I am the only thing that could pull Danny Fortnight and Alec van den Berg together again.

  And now that I have, I will be the weapon that takes them down.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE - DANNY

  The room where Alec has his weapons stored looks like the hideout for a James Bond villain or some shit. There’s no secret entryway to get in, it’s just a door with a lock. A biometric retinal scan and fingerprint pad lock, but still. Just a door and a lock. I dunno why that’s something I notice. But I do.

  Inside, it’s laid out like a showroom. Guns and weapons of various shapes and sizes strapped to the walls. Machine guns. Handguns. Shotguns. Sniper rifles. And…

  “Is that a fuckin’ RPG?” I ask.

  “I believe it is, yes,” he says.

  I believe it is. Leave it to fucking Alec to have so much shit lying around that he doesn’t even know what all he owns.

  He runs over to the wall and pulls down a couple automatic rifles. As he reaches up, the muscles in his bare back and shoulders tense and expand. It’s not something I should be noticing, I suppose, and I’m sure it’s just my imagination, but he looks bigger. Bigger than I think of him. Bigger than he appeared even a few minutes ago when we were together. It’s almost like he’s found a way to fill the space around him so that he can become more than he was.

  Or else my mind is playing tricks on me. Either way wouldn’t shock me.

  He tosses me one of the guns and then grabs a duffle, starts loading it with spare clips, and chucks that over to me that as well. I sling it over my shoulder, feeling the tug of the canvas strap against my naked back.

  I want to ask him… If this house was built as a secure haven, a place where he could stay close to me, a paradise manufactured for the purposes of giving the three of us a refuge one day—even if he wasn’t sure that day would come—then why did he build a room to store enough firepower to wage an invasion?

  But then I realize that I know the answer.

  Because this is our life. This is the life Alec brought us into. He’s a fucking diamond smuggler and thief. And so are Christine and I. The possibility that a war will be fought has always been just around the corner for us. None of us recognized it while it was happening, I don’t think, but everything we ever did just propelled us further and faster in the direction of this moment. This moment where the monster we’ve been feeding over the years has grown too big for us to control and now we have to put it down or be devoured.

  Our world is a beast and we no longer hold its fuckin’ leash.

  “Grab the RPG,” I say.

  “Yeah?” he asks, skeptically for some reason.

  “Yeah, dude!” I shout. We don’t have time for this shit. “There’s however the fuck many of them and there’s two of us! A fuckin’ rocket-propelled grenade could come in handy!”

  He stares at me for less than a second and then says, “Three.”

 
“What? Fuck are you saying?”

  “There’s three of us,” he says.

  My mouth tightens, I blink the emotions out of my eyes, and nod my head.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Three.” Then I grab the RPG and add, “Let’s fuckin’ go.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR - ALEC

  Unlike Danny, I do have a secondary escape route. Wouldn’t make a lot of sense to have an artillery bastion without a way to maneuver forth from it without being seen.

  The biggest problem right now is that I haven’t actually spent much time here. So, when it comes to knowing all the particulars of this compound, I’m less well equipped than I would prefer. The only thing I feel I can count on is that I still know it better than does whoever is here for us.

  And that’s when a cold chill skitters down my unshirted back. Do I? Do I know it better? The fact is that someone does know we’re here. And there are a very precious few people who even know this place exists. So that we’ve been discovered…

  But before I can think about it any further, Danny stops short. We’ve made it out of the back exit of the house and are well hidden by the copse in which we now find ourselves.

  “What?” I ask, almost bumping into him.

  “There,” he says.

  Up ahead I count at least a dozen armed men. Maybe fifteen to twenty. A fokken lot, that’s all I can be sure of. They are all wearing proper tactical gear. A fully organized, military-style assault.

  This morning at Danny’s apartment was nothing compared to this. This morning was a pinprick compared to this. My instinct tells me that the morning was something akin to a fact-finding mission. If they could have killed us then, so much the better. But ultimately it was a test balloon. Getting us out here where no one will find us and where we can just be… disappeared from the planet. This is preferable.

  I only know one person who checks all the boxes necessary to make something like what’s happening now happen.

  But why?

  Several more of our attackers are now venturing into the house through the broken glass. Scouting. Seeking. Laser sights flashing about in the now-dark forest.

  There are a handful of lights still on inside, and there is a bright, harvest-like moon overhead. Just enough illumination to make out the figures as they continue on their hunt. They are all wearing faceplates. I don’t reckon so much to shield their identities as to try to keep a bullet from piercing their fokken eyeballs.

  There’s little possibility that our shooting at them now is going to help our situation. Christine is somewhere we don’t know, and we are outnumbered and under-armed. All shooting will do is give away our position and invite them to kill us quicker. I’m trying to consider our options when Danny mounts the RPG on his shoulder.

  “Fok are you doing, bru?”

  “You have a better fuckin’ idea right now?”

  It’s as if he was reading my bloomin’ mind.

  “No, man. I don’t. Fokken shoot, I reckon.”

  He turns around, faces the murder of assailants now exploring the property and conferring about where to look for us, fiddles with the locks and safeties and triggers for a moment—one must assume that Danny has never actually shot an RPG before—and then when he’s got it all sorted out, he pulls a firing trigger.

  The thwomp sound calls to mind for me someone blowing on a didgeridoo. The sound of the explosive landing in the middle of the circle of unknown enemies and blowing them to smithereens is somewhat less quaint.

  The blast knocks Danny back about three feet. We still do not know how many men—or women; impossible to tell with their faces covered—are left alive, but we simultaneously decide that the prudent move is not to wait to find out. We take off on the run, maneuvering out and around where a small handful of still-mobile attackers is charging to find us.

  And as we flee the area, I glance over my shoulder to my right and I see…

  Christine.

  Running.

  She’s made it out of the house and is, coincidentally, charging in the direction Danny and I are headed right now.

  Aweh, man! I cannot believe that we are going to fokken get out of this kak! We are! We’re going to make it! All three of us! Ayoba, man!

  That is the thought that should be running through my head at present. It should be. But it is not.

  Because running behind her is another masked figure. Someone who was not hit by the blast. Someone who seems hell-bent on catching her. Catching her. Not killing her. Not shooting her in the back. Why?

  Someone who has a familiar gait. Whose graceful, galloping stride is recognizable to me instantly. Someone whose body moves in a way that I know well.

  Well known because his stride, his gait, his movement, his manner…

  They are also mine.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE - CHRISTINE

  The thwomp of an RPG leaving a rocket launcher is a sound you never forget. You hear it once and that’s all it takes. One time and it’s burned into your memory for lifetimes to come.

  So when I heard it, I dropped. It’s just instinct. I dropped to the muddy ground and thought, Welp. I had a good run.

  And then the explosion happened. And I was still alive.

  But my attacker—my… friend? Partner? Who the fuck is this guy?—behind me. He didn’t drop. He used those precious seconds to catch up.

  God, I really suck at this job. I might need to hone my typing skills and work in that office after all.

  He grabbed my ankle while I was still cowering. Gripped it tight. Like I was a prize he’d never let go of.

  I kicked him hard. Hard. But the faceplate. The body armor. It didn’t do much. It just did enough.

  He let go and I ran.

  I run.

  I run so hard, my panic so big, my breaths so desperate, my lungs and throat are burning like the hell I suddenly find myself in.

  We are all gonna die today.

  No. Not you, Christine.

  Them.

  Alec will die. Danny will die.

  But somehow, I know I will live through this. This is not hell around me. Hell is waiting on the other side of tonight.

  And then I see them. Danny, RPG rocket launcher mounted on his shoulder. Alec, staring at me like I’m a ghost in the mist.

  And I hear the others behind us. The tinny voice in the faceplate yelling, “Here! Over here!”

  And boots. I hear boots. I hear screams. I smell fire, and flesh, and chemicals.

  And Danny yelling, “Say hello to my little friend!”

  I smile at that. I smile all the way through the next thwomp.

  Rational thought reemerges. I am not the weapon that will take them down.

  We. Will not. Go down tonight.

  The second explosion is closer. Just down the hill.

  The boots stop. The screams grow louder.

  I scramble, one last push to reach Alec. His arm extended thirty feet away. His hand outstretched. Like if I would just reach out now, he’d cover that distance and pull me into the safety of his arms.

  So I do. I believe him. I reach.

  And I stumble.

  Face first into the mud.

  My attacker is gripping my ankle. Crawling up my body. Head in the crook of my neck like a lover. Faceplate up, or gone, or whatever, because I can feel his breath when he says, “Christine.”

  Then Alec. Poor, poor Alec.

  Because I know who this is now. I know this man. I know him.

  “Lars?” Alec says.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX - DANNY

  I don’t know what makes me reach for the phone in my jeans pocket. Maybe I’m looking for a gun? Not sure. I just find that I now have a phone in my hand. And as Lars tackles Christine, I bring it out. Don’t look at it. No time to look at it.

  But I don’t need to look at it.

  I caused this. I brought these people here. Me and my stupid obsession with GPS coordinates.

  They tracked me through my phone. Because of course they did.

&n
bsp; They are Lars. Alec’s brother. The only person on this planet he trusts outside of our triangle.

  I stuff the phone back in my pocket, pick up a rocket, load it into the launcher and feel… pretty fucking ridiculous because who the fuck am I gonna save with this thing?

  Christine is thirty feet away. On the ground, face covered in mud as Lars kneels on her back and points his pistol at her head. “Don’t do it,” he says.

  “Do it!” Christine screams. It’s a wild scream. A little bit of hysteria in that scream. My gut clenches at the sound of her fear.

  Lars yells, “Don’t do it, Fortnight. Don’t fokken do it. I’ll shoot her in the fokken head before you can pull that bleeding trigger!”

  He’s on his feet. He’s got Christine up too. Pistol still flat against her temple.

  “Do it!” Christine screams again. “Fuckin’ do it!”

  “Lars!” Alec yells. “What the fok—”

  “He sold you out, you know?” Lars cuts him off.

  I look at Alec. I shouldn’t. Because Lars could kill me in that moment of shame.

  “Him! Your precious fokken Danny! He sold you out to Brasil Lynch. Oh, yeah, bru, I do know who Brasil Lynch is, by the way. Sorry. I lied. Danny’s only with you to take you in. Hand you over. He fokked you, man!”

  “What the fok is happening right now, bru?” Alec yells at me.

  I keep staring at Alec. I look back at Lars. I look around at the destroyed house, the blown-apart forest, the screaming and burning bodies around us. How the fuck did we wind up here? I drop the rocket launcher on the ground.

  Lars smiles.

  And I make a decision. One I will probably regret. But I make it anyway. I honor Christine’s request. Kind of. I dive to the ground, retrieving a weapon from the clutches of some poor, dead asshole, and lay down fire aimed directly at Alec’s little brother.

  Lars shoots back. Empties his fucking magazine as he retreats. And as he runs, one thing strikes me as especially strange.