Dying for Rain (The Rain Trilog - BB Easton Page 0,48

something he tells himself so he can sleep at night.

Mac pulls open the shower room door without looking at me, and I walk in without being asked.

After setting the towel on a hook next to one of the open shower stalls, Mac puts the shampoo bottle on a shelf inside and turns on the faucet. The pipes are rusty and exposed, and they rattle and hiss louder than an oncoming earthquake.

Good.

“Just because it’s legal doesn’t make it right,” I say as Mac bends down to take off my shackles. “Attacking an innocent woman? Robbery? Rape? Isn’t that why you got into this job in the first place? To protect the good guys and punish the bad guys?”

“I don’t make the rules,” Mac snaps, obviously annoyed with my line of questioning. “I just enforce ’em.”

The shackles clatter to the ground as Mac stands, pressing a hand to the small of his back as his knees and random other joints snap, crackle, and pop.

“That’s apparent.” I snort, holding my wrists out for him to uncuff next. “The bad guys are literally getting away with murder while you’re busy shooting good guys in the head on live TV.”

Mac’s eyes slam up to mine the moment the second cuff falls free.

“Yeah, I know you’re the executioner. I figured it out as soon as you said you were a sniper. But it’s cool, man. You’re just doing what you gotta do, right?” I unzip my jumpsuit, pausing when I get to the sharpened toothbrush stashed in the waistband of my boxers. “And so am I.”

Grabbing the shiv, I catch Mac completely off guard as I plunge it into the side of his neck, using my left arm to block him from going for his gun. He yells in pain, but the thumps and rattles and hissing and splashing from the shower muffle his cry.

Mac goes for his gun with his left hand as I struggle with his right, but the awkward cross-body reach doesn’t allow him to flip the snap to unlock the weapon from his holster. Doing some kind of spin move, he twists out of my hold, but I grab his billy club and duck the second he gets a hand on his gun. When Mac spins around to shoot, I bash him in the kneecap with it, sending him to the floor. I grab the hand holding the gun on his way down and try to pry his fingers off by pulling his trigger finger back as far as it will go. He yells in pain and punches me in the side of the head with his free hand. Repeatedly. I feel his arthritic knuckles crunch against my skull. I shift my weight and curl around the hand holding the gun so that he can only punch me in the back now. Then, I bite his thumb and pull backward on his finger as hard as I fucking can until the gun falls free. We both scramble for it, sending it sliding across the tile floor.

“Shit,” I hiss right before Mac rears back and clocks me right in the jaw.

I see spots as I reach into the shower for the dropped billy club and crack him over the head with it. Instead of knocking him out, Mac’s eyes glaze over with rage, and he attacks me with everything he’s got.

Fists rain down on me as I back up into the scalding hot spray of the shower. I try to block his swings with one hand while using the other one to swing and stab at him with the club. I can’t connect with anything other than his sides and shoulders, so I change tactics and shove the club up under his chin, pushing until he can’t breathe and is forced to let go of me. The second he does, we both scramble for the gun again, and again it turns into a bloodbath. My ribs crack under his fists. His nose breaks against my palm. My elbow drops into his gut. His knee comes up to meet mine. What I have on Mac by way of youth and agility, he more than makes up for with skill. We are nothing but sopping wet fists and teeth and adrenaline and fear. But I have something Mac doesn’t have.

A damn good reason to live.

My lungs burn and my eyes burn and my entire fucking body feels like it’s been pulverized by a meat grinder as we wrestle under the searing hot water, but it’s