Riding The Edge - Elise Faber Page 0,46

along the stones, out of reach of both of us. Shouts rang out, boots coming toward me, hands gripping my shirt, pummeling at my back, even as I fought to control the man beneath me.

Frankie was older and fatter than me and a hell of a lot meaner.

Or, at least, a much dirtier fighter.

Because I was feeling pretty fucking mean.

I took a blow to the back of my head that made my ears ring, my temple throb, black edge into my vision, and barely missed the fist Frankie threw up.

Another gunshot rang out, and the pressure on my back stopped.

I pinned Frankie in place with an elbow, risked a glance to my left, and saw that Ava was sitting up, the gun held in her hands. She had one eye shut, and I watched as she fired off another shot and took down another of the men.

Frankie bucked, nearly tossing me off, and I redoubled my efforts, applying firm pressure to his carotid as more shots rang out. Too many to be from one gun, but the rapid pop-pop-pop ended after a few more seconds, right around the same time that Ava’s father finally slumped into unconsciousness.

I hopped up and ran over to Ava.

“I’m okay,” she rasped. “Tie ’em up.”

Nodding, I hauled ass, luckily stumbling onto a pile of cable ties on a table to make it easier to restrain the men. I could unfortunately surmise their purpose, and it was infuriating to think what Frankie had done already and had intended to do to his daughter in this room. But for the moment, I pushed the anger away and concentrated on restraining any of the men with a pulse, binding wrists and ankles with the cable ties.

Then I moved back to Ava, yanking at the tongue of my boot and pulling out the emergency bandage and clotting agent.

I lifted her shirt, assessed her wound.

Frankly, it wasn’t a great assessment.

The location—in the middle of her abdomen—was shit and there wasn’t an exit wound—which meant the bullet was still lodged in there and could be causing even more damage. Paired with the knife wound, the broken ankle . . .

Not. Good.

I tore the packet of clotting agent open with my teeth. “Ready?”

She inclined her head. “Go.”

I poured on the powder, her hiss of pain singeing through me as it bubbled and began working on her skin. Working quickly, I wrapped the bandage around her torso, pushing firmly to keep the pressure in place then tying it off as tightly as I dared, all while trying to ignore the way a cry emerged from her throat, the yelp escaping from between her tightly pressed lips. But fuck, hearing that sliced me to the quick.

“Here,” I said once I’d finished. I handed her two guns, shoved another two into the waistband of my pants, one in the front where she could reach easily, one in the back that would be more difficult for her but would allow me to grab it with a single hand as necessary. “Ready?”

She started to push up, and I bent, picking her up into my arms as carefully as possible.

More pained sounds. A grunt that was quickly stifled.

“I can walk,” she said.

No, she couldn’t. We both knew that, but I didn’t waste time arguing. Instead, I held her closer. “You’re the better shot,” I reminded her. “And you know this place. Be my eyes and my guide. I’ll be the brute strength.” Forcing my lips up, I added, “You know that’s all I’m good for anyway.”

“Hard-headed?”

“Hard something.”

She snorted then winced.

And I felt like an even bigger asshole.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to be an avenging angel to that one,” came a cold voice.

Frankie was awake. Great.

“She’s a Toscalo through and through,” he said. “And she enjoyed proving it when she turned on her friends, betrayed anyone who ever took care of her. Look at me. I was—”

Ava shot him between the eyes.

Blood bloomed on his forehead; his body collapsed back onto the floor.

Her brown eyes were ringed with pain when they met mine. “I’m not that.”

I didn’t bother wasting any grief for the man. Frankie was a fucking bastard, and the world was a better place without him. I just turned for the door.

Maybe that made me a bad person.

Maybe I should feel a blip of guilt or concern that she’d executed him without preamble.

But I’d seen too much of Frankie’s deeds, knew too much of what would become his legacy to judge her for that. And I’d