The Rebel King (All the King's Men Duet #2) - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,16
word rips from me. I’m horrified and absolutely certain he would do it. “Wallace, just go. Please.”
“I love you, Lenny.”
“I love you, too,” I whisper, heedless of the two men listening or of the tears wetting my cheeks.
“Come on.” Nixon pokes Wallace in the back with his automatic weapon. “Get in that boat.”
Abe raises his gun and points it to my forehead. Everything in me wants to squeeze my eyes shut, to take refuge in that darkness, but I force my eyes open. I refuse to hide from evil, locking my glance with his through the slits of his mask. The last time he sees me, I won’t be cowering, I won’t be in fear.
The shot fires.
I wait to fall and wonder if I’ll float above my body, look down on myself dying on the ground . . . but I’m whole and unharmed. Abe’s gun falls. He howls, grabbing the hand that was holding his gun moments ago, which now gushes blood. Nixon looks in the direction of the shot, but before he can fire, he’s hit. Still holding the gun, he wears that startled look of the men they shot not even an hour ago. Blood gurgles from a hole in his throat. He drops the gun, both his hands going to his neck to stop the gushing.
“Jack!” Abe shouts.
My feet are planted in the sand. I’m paralyzed for long seconds while Abe takes in the scene, the emotion on his face reshaping, skewing the mask.
Wallace looks at me, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping. We stare at one another for a moment, both shocked and strangely immobile.
“Run!”
At first it’s my mother’s voice, my dream, and I think my imagination is still playing tricks on me.
“Nix!” a voice yells a second time from the edge of the woods. “Run!”
As soon as I hear my name just that way, called in that deep voice, my heart pounds against my ribs.
“Maxim?” I look around, frantically searching the tangle of wild bushes and trees. And then I see him. Running toward us, a gun extended, aimed.
“Run!” he shouts again, not looking at me, eyes locked on Abe. “Murrow, get her out of here.”
Wallace, as if snapping from a trance, grabs my arm awkwardly with one cuffed hand and takes off, dragging me along with him. I glance back. Fury tautens every line of Abe’s body. He looks from the dead man on the ground, to Maxim, and picks up Nixon’s automatic weapon.
“No!” I scream, breaking away from Wallace and running back. Before Abe gets off even one shot, the report of a bullet splinters the air. Abe stumbles back, a scarlet bloodstain blossoming on his shoulder through his T-shirt. He covers the wound with his hand and takes off toward the boat. Another shot rings out, but Maxim hasn’t raised his gun again. A huge man dressed in camouflage pursues Abe, who pauses long enough to lift his gun despite a grimace of pain. The man in fatigues shoots him again, this time hitting the other shoulder. Abe stumbles toward the river where the boat waits, lunging, his body half on, half off the vessel. Another shot fires, this one hitting him in the back. He falls overboard into the rushing water, which drags him downstream. The man in fatigues keeps running, wading along the river’s edge in the direction the water carries Abe.
“Don’t let him get away!” the man in fatigues shouts.
It’s only then I notice the group of men following him, all dressed in camouflage, black greasepaint smeared on their faces. Several of them jump in the yellow raft and follow Abe’s body, bobbing along and farther away. With narrowed eyes, Maxim watches the violent waves, blood streaming behind Abe in a scarlet wake.
“Doc!” I run and hurl myself at him, not even sure he’s ready to catch me. But he does. His arms encircle me so tightly it almost hurts and it’s still not tight enough. Maxim’s muscles flex with leashed power, but with my arms and cuffed hands trapped between us, he trembles against me. It feels like I’m rescuing him, too.
“Nix,” he says, his voice rough. “I thought . . .”
“I’m okay.” I press into him, sobs shaking my whole body—relief, joy, shock. Too many emotions to contain, and they leak from me in a torrent, wetting his neck, his shirt with my tears.
“You’re okay?” He pulls back to search my face, to look into my eyes. “Did he hurt you?”