Bulletproof - Xavier Neal Page 0,20
me to perform at my peak performance.”
“They clear your head.”
The oversimplification annoys me, yet I fight to keep it out of my tone, “Basically.”
“And the walks around the interior?”
“Sporadic. How much I walk and where is based on project needs of the moment. Somedays I am rarely in one spot for longer than forty-five minutes and others I only leave during the aforementioned window.”
“You have an established routine here as well.”
This time I don’t bother batting the irritation away. “Did my brother fail to mention that I don’t have a high tolerance for people who waste their time stating the obvious for an unknown reason?”
“I was verbally noting an observation.”
“You were verbally judging me yet again for being a person of routine.”
“I-”
“You are wasting your time and mine coming to obvious conclusions such as I must be boring to like a certain level of predictableness in my schedule.”
“I-”
“That I must not be fun to be around or socialize with or talk to simply because I live by the clock rather than ignore it.”
“You’re being awfully defensive.”
“And you’re being-” the sentence is suddenly stopped short by him sliding into my path and abruptly yanking my body against his. The swift change in position, which puts his frame protectively in front of mine, leads to me mindlessly mumbling the word change the action has conjured. “Aggressive.”
He doesn’t bother wasting his breath explaining the action or allowing me to admire how fascinating it is that we fit so perfectly together. Instead, Bronx merely mutters, “Watch your toes.”
There isn’t time for my brain to truly register the words.
The faintest tap against my foot occurs before his leg is forcefully thrust backward into the shin of the assailant I didn’t see coming. He folds forward right into a headlock that’s followed by Bronx releasing his momentary grip on me, removing his holstered weapon, and twisting to the side just enough to fire two shots into the skull of another black-masked individual exiting out of the nearby maintenance door. Ringing in my ears syncs to the same harsh rhythm of my heart yet being boorishly thrust against the brick wall beside us prevents me from having an opportunity to acknowledge any of it. A long white projectile with a fuzzy red end crashes into the ground directly where I was just standing. Bronx mercilessly rams the head of the man who is fighting against his hold into the stone wall until he’s crumpled into an unconscious heap beside us. My mouth moves in desperation to ask questions and express gratitude but is unsurprisingly thwarted by another pointed object being propelled our direction. In a seemingly ceaseless cycle, I’m rolled around to be in front of him and then rolled around again to have him in front of me. The continuous oscillation of positions perfectly prevents me from taking a single hit that’s being rained down upon us. As we maneuver towards the end of the wall, I brace myself to be swung around the corner, yet two inches from the edge, I’m thrust back into the driving path reserved for golf carts and maintenance vehicles. Another attacker reaches out into the space where he’s expecting me but is instantly greeted by a crippling strike to the wrist. Stomach-churning crunch sounds echo around the small nook that’s occupied by trashcans and recycle bins threatening to have me heave up the bagel I was thrilled to have. My bodyguard springs forward and fires off consecutive rounds to each of the enemies in sight. Our snipers – who have brass balls if they call themselves that considering how shitty their aim is – each take a single shot to the forehead while the attempted grabber receives two to the arm and one through the neck.
His body has just finished falling to the sidewalk when Bronx commands, “Let’s move.” He rips out the three-pointed pieces that somehow struck him, callously tosses them aside, and snatches my hand at the same time he squats down. “Stay low.”
My figure instantaneously contorts to match his. “Those darts-”
“Non-lethal.” Bronx begins to swiftly tug me towards the parking lot. “They want you alive. The doses are probably only high enough to temporarily immobilize you. Get you to stop moving long enough to be zip-tied and transported.”
“Zip-tied?!” I quietly croak during our creep up the small hill to where a section of employee cars is parked. “Why wouldn’t they use duct tape or rope?”
“Duct tape is easier to break especially when hit at the right angle