Parabellum [h.s.] AU

Chapter 20

Sand and smoke filled my lungs. Harry's hand clamped around my wrist and he yanked me through the stampede, cutting a path between overturned tables and screaming bodies.

"Move," he snapped. "Left—down to the waterline."

"Harry—" I stumbled, bare feet skidding in the sand. "What did he mean? 'Wannabe John Wick'?"

"Eyes up. Duck." He shoved me beneath a sagging string of lanterns; a burst of gunfire chewed through paper and light. "Stairs. Now."

We sprinted up a warped wooden staircase toward the back deck. He paused just long enough to fire twice—two silhouettes dropped; the rest scattered.

"Answer me!" I gasped.

He didn't look at me, only scanned, always scanning. "Fucks sake, I trained with him Devinne. Once. William thought it was wise I study where Wick was forged."

"Wait— What?"

"One of the most powerful criminal organizations in our world," Harry shouldered open a service door, muscled us into a narrow corridor that reeked of bleach and seawater. "I lived there for a few years, in Russia. The Director's place. Ballet on top, knives underneath. I was there three years."

My heart hammered, suddenly remembering. "Three years? That summer you left and never came back—I thought you were backpacking in Europe."

"I lied." He pushed a crash bar with his shoulder; we spilled into a dark service alley behind the beach bar. "Keep low."

I swallowed hard. "You trained where the monster from my childhood nightmares learned to kill." The statement alone sounded so ridiculous, I almost wanted to laugh.

He finally cut me a look—sharp, impatient. "John Wick." He jerked his chin toward the mouth of the alley. "He's not Voldemort, you can say his name, you know."

"Does that make you like hi—"

"No," he said, flat. Already knowing my question. "It makes me alive."

Footsteps pounded somewhere behind us.
Harry grabbed my hand again and we ran, darting past stacked crates and gas canisters.

The alley emptied onto a side street, neon bleeding across wet cobblestones. A battered scooter leaned against a wall; he kicked the stand, jammed the ignition with something from his pocket, and the engine coughed to life.

"On," he ordered.

I swung a leg over, arms locking around his waist before I could think. He gunned it; the scooter fishtailed, then bit. Wind tore the smoke from my hair as we shot through a knot of pedestrians who cursed and jumped aside.

"Why 'wannabe'?" I shouted over the engine. "They said it like—like you're copying him."

Harry leaned the scooter into a turn so tight my stomach dropped. "Low-rent hitters love a nickname. Makes them feel like they're in the story. I'm not in his story."

"Yeah, but you trained where he did. You trained with him."

"That's not the same as being him. And it was only once! He wouldn't even remember me."

We blew a red light; a horn blared, and a truck missed us by inches. I buried my face between his shoulders for a beat, then forced my voice steady. "Did William send you there because of... me?"

His jaw worked; I felt it under my cheekbone. "Yes."

The word landed heavier than the wind.

He throttled down two gears, cut through a market lane strung with dying bulbs and canvas tarps. A vendor shouted as we clipped a basket of dates. Harry didn't slow.