Chapter 21 | The Devil of Siren City

Adrian

“That is not my name,” I say, my throat tight with anger.

The three on the ground step forward, each carrying thick batons. The man in the center takes wider steps, staying in the front. The obvious leader. Or the only one courageous enough to stick his neck out first.

“Lower your hood, Hades!” he barks.

I don’t.

“That,” I repeat, this time through clenched teeth, “is not my name.”

He stands tall, his baton held firm along his forearm. “Lower your hood.”

I lower it now or it falls mid-fight. Either way, it’s happening soon. With a glance up at the two armed men on the truck, I move my hand upward. They all tense as I grip my hood and throw it back. Before it settles on my neck, two of them audibly gasp, my face clear in the sunlight. They know who I am. Even through the dried blood beneath my nose and along my chin. They know.

The riflemen tighten, their fingers coming to rest on their triggers.

The leader takes another step forward. “Down on your knees, Hades,” he says, his brow raised. “Put your hands up.”

I don’t move, my wits working hard. The man on the right is obviously experienced; his stance perfect, indicative of years of hand-to-hand combat training. The man on the left is younger. Greener. He’ll go down easy if he doesn’t turn tail and run first.

The front man... I already know.

He’s one of the bastards who attacked Skylar in the alley by the boardwalk. He held her by the hair. He held a knife to her throat...

He cut her.

His expression shifts slightly as I stare at him, as if he realizes I remember exactly who he is. He hardens his stance, bracing his baton arm in case I attack. I imagine he assumes me like a savage animal right about now. Cornered. Aggravated. Ready to kill.

He’s not wrong.

“Hades,” he says.

I glare. I won’t repeat myself again.

“On your knees,” he warns, “or we will put you on your knees.”

He raises his free hand, signaling a rifleman behind him, who promptly adjusts his aim to target my legs. The other keeps his scope on my head. I don’t have to question their training. They’re solid as rocks. They’ve killed before, and without remorse. If I make one wrong move, they’ll fire. I may be able to dodge one bullet, but not two. Not two.

I have no options here.

“Going out in a blaze of glory sounds neat and all, but I’m more the live to fight another day type,” Miller said to me the day we met.

It’s fitting those words would come to mind today. 

Live now. Fight later.

I slowly raise my arms.

A high-pitched whistle echoes throughout the alley, followed instantly by a softer, duller whistle — a far deadlier whistle.

An arrow pierces the chest of the rifleman on the right. His body slumps forward, his gun clanging against the truck bed as he plummets to his knees. The sound startles the rest of them, and everyone turns to see what happened.

The second rifleman reacts, too. He points his gun up into the sky, aiming toward the rooftops above.

Another dull whistle, another arrow fired. This one punctures the rifleman’s eye.

He falls. Dead instantly.

Before his body crumbles, before the remaining three turn back around, I make my move. With a few swift steps, I cross toward the weakling on the left, my grip tight on the handle of my switchblade. I flick it open; the sound draws the attention of the trained one on the right. But it’s too late for him to save his buddy.

I slit his throat.

He stumbles back, his hands foolishly coming to his neck. With him out of the way, I turn on the leader, quickly raising an arm to block a furious blow with his baton. Pain reverberates through my forearm as I spin on my toes, my knife pointed toward his sternum.

A body collides with me before I can shank him. The trained one slams into my side, breaking my momentum. With his fist in my gut, my grip on my knife slips. I curse as it falls from my fingers and my back slams onto the ground, my head knocking against the concrete. With blurred vision, I lash out, hitting the shape above me as hard as possible as I wait for my wits to return.

Another pair of hands grabs me by the sweater as the leader catches up. He drags me backward, attempting to pin my arms behind me while his friend takes me by the front. I let him pull me up, then I kick off the ground, connecting a solid kick against the trained one’s face. He takes it well, but not well enough to keep from falling down on one knee.

While he stumbles, I ram my elbow into the man behind me and I hear a solid crack somewhere in his chest. He releases me as he chokes on his own air, and I connect another punch in the same place.

With a yelp, he doubles over, his face grimacing in intense pain. I broke something all right. Enough to keep him down long enough to deal with his friend.

Then, I’ll be back.

I turn and—

The trained one looks me in the eye. He’s back on his feet now. He’s standing in front of me with one hand gripping the front of my sweater. The other hand holds a knife. My knife.

And he’s stuck it deep into my right side.