Chapter 120 Rooftop Bloodshed
Julian: POV
The bastard didn't answer. Just lunged.
He was tall—maybe 6'4"—with a jagged scar running from his left eyebrow down to his jaw. Old wound. Knife fight, probably. The scar tissue pulled his mouth into a permanent sneer.
I ducked under his first swing. His fist whistled past my ear. I came up fast, driving my shoulder into his ribs. He barely grunted. Solid as concrete.
Then I saw the second one circling left. Leaner build, moving with the fluid grace of someone who knew how to fight. His right hand hung loose at his side.
Southpaw.
Shit.
"Elena, get behind the helicopter!"
But she didn't move.
The third guy—bald, multiple earrings glinting in the late afternoon sun—raised his gun. Not at me, but at her.
"Drop it!" I roared, positioning myself between them.
He smiled. Gold tooth. "Move aside, Mr. Sterling. We ain't here for you."
Like hell.
Scarface attacked from my right. I spun, caught his wrist mid-punch. Used his momentum to swing him around, straight into Southpaw. They collided with a satisfying crunch.
But Southpaw recovered fast. His left hook came out of nowhere, catching me in the kidney. Pain exploded through my lower back. I staggered.
He pressed the advantage. Another left jab. I blocked. Then a right feint followed by a left uppercut that nearly took my head off.
I stumbled backward, tasting blood.
The helicopter's rotors were still winding down, creating a vortex of wind and noise. I used it. Grabbed a fistful of gravel from the rooftop, threw it at Southpaw's face.
He flinched. Just for a second.
I closed the distance, drove my knee into his solar plexus. Once. Twice. He doubled over. I brought my elbow down on the back of his neck. He hit the ground hard.
One down.
Movement in my peripheral vision. Scarface charging like a bull.
I sidestepped at the last second. He barreled past me, unable to stop his momentum. I kicked the back of his knee. He went down face-first, skidding across the gravel.
"Julian!"
Elena's warning came too late.
The gunman had moved. Now he was ten feet away, weapon trained on Elena's chest.
My heart stopped.
"Don't—" I started.
Elena moved first.
She dropped low, rolling toward the air conditioning unit. The gunshot cracked—deafening—the bullet sparking off metal where she'd been standing.
Then she was up, coming at him from his blind side. Her movements were precise, economical. Pure Krav Maga.
She struck his gun hand with the edge of her palm. The weapon flew from his grip, clattered across the rooftop. Before he could react, she drove her fist into his throat. He gagged, stumbling backward.
Holy shit.
But Scarface was getting up. Blood streaming from his nose, gravel embedded in his cheek. He looked pissed.
He came at me with renewed fury. Faster this time. His right hook connected with my jaw. Stars exploded across my vision. I tasted copper.
He followed up with a left to my ribs. Something cracked.
Fuck.
I couldn't trade blows with this gorilla. I needed leverage.
I grabbed his shirt, used his forward momentum to pivot, slammed him into the helicopter's landing skid. The metal rang like a bell. He roared, grabbing my throat with both hands.
His grip tightened. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
I drove my thumbs into the pressure points below his ears. He howled, his grip loosening just enough.
I headbutted him. Hard. My forehead connected with the bridge of his nose. Bone crunched. Blood sprayed.
He let go.
I didn't give him time to recover. Drove my knee into his gut. Again. Again. He doubled over. I grabbed the back of his head, slammed it down onto my rising knee.
His eyes rolled back. He collapsed.
Two down.
"Behind you!"
Southpaw had recovered. And he was holding the gun.
No.
I dove behind the air conditioning unit as he fired. The bullet pinged off metal. Then another. Another.
"Fucking stand still!" he snarled.
I counted the shots. Three. Four. Five.
Standard Glock held seventeen rounds. He had twelve left.
I needed to move. Now.
I rolled out from cover, low and fast. He adjusted his aim. Fired. The bullet whizzed past my shoulder, so close I felt the heat.
Then Elena was there.
She came from above—she'd climbed onto the air conditioning unit. Launched herself at Southpaw like a guided missile. Her feet connected with his chest. They both went down hard.
The gun skittered away.
I scrambled for it. So did Southpaw.
We reached it at the same time. His left hand closed around the grip. My hand closed around his wrist. We grappled, rolling across the gravel. He was strong. Wiry. Desperate.
His finger found the trigger.
The shot went wild, ricocheting off the rooftop access door.
I slammed his wrist against the concrete. Once. Twice. His grip loosened. I wrenched the gun free, threw it as far as I could. It disappeared over the edge of the building.
He snarled, driving his elbow into my temple. My vision blurred. He rolled on top of me, raining down punches. Left, left, left. Each one landing with sickening accuracy.
I tried to block. Couldn't keep up.
Then he stopped. Suddenly.
Elena had grabbed a length of metal pipe from somewhere. Brought it down across his shoulders. He arched backward, howling.
She hit him again. And again.
He collapsed sideways, unconscious.
Three down.
I lay there, gasping. Everything hurt. My face felt like raw hamburger. Something was definitely broken in my ribs.
Elena dropped the pipe. It clanged against the concrete. She was breathing hard, blood trickling from a cut above her eye.
"Are you—" I managed.
A click.
That sound. I knew that sound.
A gun being cocked.
I turned my head. Saw the bald gunman on his knees, ten feet away. He'd found another weapon. Smaller. Ankle holster.
His hand was shaking. But the barrel was pointed straight at Elena.
"You fucking bitch," he gasped. "Boss said you needed to disappear."
Time stopped.
I saw his finger tighten on the trigger.
Saw the barrel steady.
Saw Elena frozen, eyes wide.
I moved.
Didn't think. Just launched myself between them.
The gunshot was deafening.
The impact hit high on my left shoulder. Just below the collarbone. The bullet punched through me like a red-hot spike.
My legs gave out. I went down hard, landing on my knees.
The world tilted.
"JULIAN!"
Elena's scream sounded distant. Underwater.
I saw her kick the gun away. Saw her drive her heel into the gunman's temple. He crumpled.
Then she was on the ground beside me, catching me as I fell forward.
"No no no no—" Her hands pressed against my shoulder. Warm. Wet. "DOCTOR! SOMEONE HELP!"
I tried to speak. Couldn't. My mouth filled with blood.
"Stay with me," she sobbed. "Julian, please—"
I looked up at her. Her face was so close. So beautiful, even blurred and swimming.
"Won't..." I gasped. "Won't let you... get hurt..."
"Shut up." Tears streamed down her face. "Don't you dare—don't you fucking dare—"
My good hand found hers. Squeezed weakly.