Flesh 02 Skin(71)

“Hey,” said Pete with a slow smirk, looking past him for signs of Ros, no doubt.

“Hey.”

Letting her go had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. Cutting off his hand would have hurt less. She needed to get away clean. And someone needed to finish these bastards. Beneath all the pain he felt strangely calm, knowing this was finally it. He didn’t kid himself. The likelihood of him walking away from this was next to non-existent.

With a dumb-ass grin Pete waved him forward. “How’d it go? Talking to her?”

He smiled back calmly.

Pete’s fingers slid lovingly over the barrel of the shottie. He didn’t doubt the threat. Sooner or later Pete and Justin would decide to get rid of him. Their playing nice was never really believable. That Pete hadn’t yet tired of Justin and taken his bowie knife to him came as a bit of a surprise. Pete had a nasty temper, and the only person he’d ever really been afraid of was Emmet.

Outside, the truck engine turned over.

“Stop her!” Pete screamed, his lips drawn back, exposing yellowed clenched teeth. He looked like a fucking animal, letting loose a roar that should have shook the building. To his left, Justin jumped up, making a dive for the gun on the coffee table.

Nick drew his weapon and fired. The bullets punched into the wall behind Pete’s head as the man threw himself aside, toppling the shoddy chair. Pete fell onto the carpet and rolled onto his back, unharmed.

Justin scrambled for the front door.

The front gates clanged and squealed as Roslyn crashed into them, tearing them apart. They were too late. She’d gotten out. The relief nearly staggered him.

With a snarl Pete pulled up the shotgun. Boom. Nick dived back through the bedroom door as the hallway erupted into smoke and noise. His ears rang. Boom. Again the shotgun discharged. The wide open bedroom door exploded into a mass of splinters, a big hole in its middle that continued into the wall behind it. Dust filled the air.

Nick rolled onto his back, pulling up his weapon, but too late. Screaming his heart out, Pete charged through the door and fell on top of him. The man straddled him and fists pounded into his ribs. Pete’s furious, bright-red face was beyond recognition. Nick blocked as many of the punches as possible, clawing at the fucker's face, trying to push him back. A sledgehammer of a hit landed below his ribs. Pain cramped Nick’s guts as he fought to get the leverage to throw Pete off him. His legs flailed uselessly.

Out of the corner of his eye he spied the silver of Pete’s bowie knife flying at his face. He grabbed the man’s wrist with both hands, muscles straining. Pete snapped and growled, spraying his face with hot, wet spit.

Fuck, he could hear gunshots outside. Justin shooting at Ros. Please let her be gone by now.

Pete put his weight behind the blade. The wickedly sharp point of the knife pressed down, only an inch or two from Nick’s eye. He pushed back, moving the knife a bare hand’s length from his face. He couldn’t move him. Not enough to count. A lunatic’s grin curled Pete’s lips.

The house suddenly shuddered and there was an almighty smash. His ears rang. The noise was deafening. Towards the front of the place, beams of timber snapped and the whole structure groaned. Plaster flakes rained down. For just a moment it distracted Pete. His brows jumped as he looked to the ever-widening crack spreading across the ceiling. With the last of his strength, Nick surged up, rolling the man. He reversed the blade, pointing it at his middle. Pete broke his momentum by putting out an elbow, bringing the turnabout to a halt. But it was too late. The bowie knife sunk deep into the man’s side. Blood flowed onto the dirty carpet and Pete’s eyes went wide and white. A high wheezing noise escaped him.

Nick pulled out the blade, fingers slipping on the slick bloody bone handle. In and up. Beneath the ribs and high towards the heart. This time Pete’s skin felt like old leather, impossible to cut through. But Nick was plenty fucking motivated. Blood swelled to the surface, spreading out across Pete’s gray T-shirt and staining it dark red.

No more movement. No nothing. Everything was quiet apart from the occasional death rattle from the house.

Where was Ros? What the fuck had she done?

He wiped off his bloody hands and grabbed his gun. Looked out in the mess of what had been the lounge room. Sunlight streamed in, lighting the clouds of dust and debris floating through the air. Fucking amazing. Half the roof seemed to have caved in. He could just make out the front of the truck, buried in rubble.

“Shit.”

He raced to the bedroom window and pushed it open. Climbed out and ran toward the front. Bricks and roof tiles and fuck knew what else covered the crumpled hood of the truck. Blood covered the shattered outside of the windscreen and one of Justin’s hands was just visible, still clutching a pistol. The rest of his body lay buried beneath the rubble.