When Jordan cautiously looked at the driver’s seat, he felt bile rise to his throat when he saw blood. Lots and lots of blood.
The man was dead.
Their driver was dead. Just like that.
Shaking his shock off, Jordan turned his head, but Damiano was already outside the car. Gunshots rained around. How many hostiles were there, exactly?
Cautiously, Jordan peeked out the window and paled when he saw three black vans, each containing at least eight gunmen in black masks.
Where the fuck were Damiano’s bodyguards?
Jordan looked back and saw an overturned, burning car in the distance. Looked like that was the answer to his question. They were on their own.
Considering how badly they were outnumbered, he was surprised they were still alive. But then he looked at Damiano—and stared.
Apparently Ferrara hadn’t been exaggerating when he said Damiano could hit the bullseye ten times out of ten. Jordan could only stare with a slack jaw as Damiano methodically shot down their would-be assassins one after another. He didn’t waste bullets, his aim as precise as that of a machine. Each shot hit its target with incredible accuracy and speed, and their attackers’ numbers were dwindling. They were hesitating, probably perfectly aware of Damiano’s reputation and skill with the gun.
But that wouldn’t be enough. One man, no matter how good, could never out-shoot two dozen men forever. They’d overwhelm him soon enough.
Jordan reached into the compartment Damiano had gotten his gun from, and was relieved to find another gun there.
The model was unfamiliar to him, but its weight was still comforting in his hand. Taking off the safety, Jordan ducked out of the car. Crouching behind it, he aimed and took a shot. The first bullet went wide, but his second hit the mark: a man in a black mask made a gurgling sound and fell to the ground, blood pouring from the wound in his belly.
Swallowing, Jordan pushed it to the back of his mind. Later. He didn’t have time to dwell on it. He didn’t have time to freak out.
His hand didn’t shake as he found another target and pulled the trigger. Miss. Miss. Hit. Miss. Hit. Miss. Hit. He missed more than he hit the—the targets, but he distracted their attackers enough not to allow them all to focus on Damiano and overwhelm him.
When he ran out of bullets, Jordan ducked behind the car again and shifted his gaze to Damiano, trying hard not to think about the fact that he’d just taken life. Four lives. Nausea churned in his gut.
It was a good thing Damiano was an excellent distraction. He truly was mesmerizing to watch. He shot men, picked up their guns, and used them, always in motion as bullets rained down on him, yet somehow he was still alive. If killing so many men bothered him, he didn’t show it, his gaze focused and laser-sharp as he shot one man after another, gray eyes cold and assessing. Cool-headed. Totally in control.
Jordan watched him, transfixed, unable to look away. He always appreciated competence, and this was so far beyond competence it was impossible to avert his gaze.
That was why he noticed too late the gaseous substance in the air. His thoughts started clouding, becoming slower, his eyelids growing incredibly heavy and his body weak. The next thing he knew, everything was black.
Chapter 8
He regained consciousness slowly.
The first thing he became aware of was the cold. He was so cold that he was actually shivering.
It baffled him enough to force him to open his eyes. He was sprawled on his back on something hard. The ceiling he was staring at looked like… rock?
Forcing the grogginess away, Jordan hauled himself into a sitting position and looked around. He was in a tiny room, maybe forty-six square feet at most. The walls were an odd mix of man-made and natural, as if it was a room that was built in a cave. The air was very moist, and the humidity made the chill even more unpleasant than it otherwise would have been. It was dark, wherever he was, a dim, old-fashioned lamp up high on the wall the only source of light. There was a dirty toilet in the corner.
There were no windows and no visible doors.
Feeling a jolt of panic, Jordan looked around, searching for the door frantically. It had to be there. He couldn’t have fucking been teleported here. There was no reason to panic.
Unfortunately, his claustrophobia couldn’t be rationalized away. His heart hammering in his chest, he staggered to his feet. Door. He needed to find the damn door.
He stumbled against something and nearly fell.
Squinting in the poor light, Jordan looked down.
Oh. He wasn’t sure how he’d missed a body on the floor.
It was Damiano. He was lying on his stomach, very still.
He… he wasn’t dead, was he?
Holding his breath, Jordan turned him onto his back and breathed out when he saw his chest rise and fall. Not dead, then. He’d probably been knocked out by the same gas. Jordan couldn’t see any visible wounds, though it was hard to tell in the semi-darkness.