Chapter 130
[Rose's POV]
The gunshot never came.
Instead, the world exploded in a different way—a screech of tires, a roar of engine, and then the container shook as something massive slammed into it from outside. Oliver's silhouette disappeared with a truncated shout. Lucas spun toward the sound, his gun tracking away from me, and I saw it—a black SUV, its front end crumpled from impact, its headlights flooding the container with light so bright it hurt.
The driver's door flew open. A figure stumbled out, moving with the jerky urgency of someone operating on nothing but adrenaline. White shirt soaked with blood. Face pale as death. But those eyes—gray, desperate, furious—locked onto mine with absolute focus.
Benjamin.
"Get away from her!" His voice cracked with strain, with pain, with something that sounded like it might tear him apart. He lunged at Lucas, who'd turned to face this new threat. The gun swung up. Benjamin grabbed Lucas's wrist with both hands, forcing the barrel toward the sky.
They grappled. Lucas was trained, efficient, his movements economical and practiced. But Benjamin fought with the wild desperation of someone who'd already decided death was an acceptable price. Blood soaked through his shirt with each movement—the wound from the car accident reopening, probably tearing wider with every second of exertion.
"Rose, run!" Benjamin gasped, his voice hoarse as he struggled to maintain his grip. But I couldn't run. My legs had finally given out, dumping me to my knees on the cold metal floor. All I could do was watch as they fought, watch as Benjamin's grip weakened, watch as Lucas's superior training began to tell.
Lucas twisted, using Benjamin's momentum against him, and broke free. The gun came up. Benjamin threw himself forward again, but this time Lucas was ready. He sidestepped, brought the gun down hard on Benjamin's injured shoulder.
Benjamin's scream split the air. He went down hard, collapsing to one knee, his shirt now more red than white. Lucas raised the gun to fire.
I moved without thinking. The knife was still in my hand. My legs barely worked, but I threw myself forward anyway, using the last dregs of adrenaline to close the distance. I crashed into Lucas from the side, both of us going down in a tangle of limbs. The gun skittered across the container floor.
We hit the metal deck hard. Stars exploded across my vision. Lucas was bigger, stronger, and he recovered first. His hands closed around my throat. Squeezed. My vision began to darken at the edges, my lungs screaming for air that wouldn't come.
Then Benjamin was there, his good arm wrapping around Lucas's neck, yanking him backward with enough force to break the chokehold. They rolled away from me, and I gasped in air, each breath like swallowing broken glass. The gun. Had to reach the gun.
I crawled toward it, every movement agony, my vision swimming. My fingers closed around the grip just as Lucas managed to shove Benjamin off. He looked up, saw me with the weapon, and his expression shifted from rage to calculation.
"You won't shoot," he said, breathing hard. "You're not a killer. I can see it in your eyes."
He was right. My hands shook so badly I could barely keep the gun pointed in his general direction. The weight of it was all wrong, nothing like the weapons I'd trained with in the 1940s. And the thought of actually pulling the trigger, of taking a life—
Benjamin rose unsteadily to his feet beside me. Blood dripped from his shoulder, painting the metal floor in slow, spreading pools. "Maybe she won't," he said quietly. "But I will."
He took the gun from my trembling hands. Aimed it at Lucas with perfect, deadly steadiness. "On your knees. Hands behind your head. Now."
Lucas complied, his face going blank. In the distance, sirens wailed. Growing closer.
Benjamin didn't lower the gun until uniformed officers swarmed into the container, until Lucas was in handcuffs, until paramedics were trying to pull him away to treat his shoulder. Then—only then—did he turn to me.
I was still on my knees, unable to stand, unable to process that this was real, that I was safe, that he'd actually come. Benjamin dropped to his knees in front of me, the gun clattering forgotten to the floor. His hands—shaking as badly as mine—reached for my face, cupping my cheeks with infinite gentleness.
"You're safe now, Rose." His voice broke on my name. "I've got you."
The dam burst. All the terror I'd locked away, all the pain I'd ignored, all the desperate hope I'd been too afraid to acknowledge—it all came flooding out at once. I threw my arms around him, felt his good arm wrap around my back, and sobbed into his blood-soaked shirt.
"I'll never let anyone hurt you again," he whispered into my hair, his words a vow and a prayer and a promise all at once. "Never. I swear it."
I believed him.