Free Worth Dying for (A Dying for a Living Novel Book 5) by Kory M. Shrum

those are beginning to rub blisters on my heels. It’s an hour before we stumble into Little Italy. Gideon points at a sign.
    “That’s Luca’s place,” he says. “We won’t be but a few minutes, then we’ll head back to the hotel.”
    The smell of bread and spices ignites my hunger. But it must be coming from somewhere else because this restaurant is unlit and a sorry we’re closed sign hangs crookedly in the door’s window.
    “Are you sure this is the place?” I press my face against the glass. The chairs are upturned, seats resting on the table top. “It looks like someone swept up last night and never came back.”
    “I have a feeling I know why he didn’t answer my calls.” Gideon’s tone is low. “Come on.”
    We creep down the dim and narrow space between two buildings. At the back of the trattoria, we find a dented screen door slightly ajar. A single black slit of darkness lines the entrance, ominous and uninviting. A black cat with white paws jumps up onto a barren window box and begins scratching at the frozen earth there.
    “Be careful,” Gideon says, and I don’t know who he is talking to. Me? I’m not the one with my hand on the door, pushing it open.
    “Are you sure he’s here?” I’m having doubts that some random Italian with the ability to acquire travel documents for total strangers is here.
    “Shall we see?” He glances over his shoulder, taking in the small alcove between buildings with its overflowing dumpster to one side and the crooked walkway leading to another street. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t see it before he ducks into the restaurant.
    We creep through the dim hallway, past two empty bathrooms and a door labeled “employees only.” This command holds no sanctity for Gideon, so he twists the handle. His face crumples.
    “What?” I whisper, unable to see around his body.
    “It’s unlocked.” He lets go of the handle. “We should go.”
    “What if the papers are in there? You said we needed them.”
    His shoulders slump and he pushes open the door. The little room is especially warm and crowded with filing cabinets and a large desk. Luca sits behind it, a bullet hole in his head and a stream of thick, sticky blood on the side of his face, soaking the upper collar of his crisp linen shirt. His black eyes are dull and unfocused.
    Gideon sighs. “Check the drawers. Perhaps we can still find our papers.”
    A large pile slips precariously to the edge, threatening to tumble into the floor.
    Gideon yanks open the nearest drawer and begins ruffling through its contents. “We can still get to Arizona if we don’t have the papers to fly. We will simply have to drive instead. It will take longer, but it will be safer.”
    O n guard .
    I stiffen at the sound of Uriel’s voice. “We’ve got trouble.”
    A small sound draws my ear and I whirl, expecting to see police or whomever must have been called in response to the sound of a bullet blasting out Luca’s brains. But it isn’t the police blocking our exit, trapping us in the small office. It’s five men in dark suits and opaque glasses, guns drawn. They aren’t the men I threw onto the tracks earlier, yet they have a similar look to them like perhaps they all fell off the same assembly line.
    “Hello Gideon,” the one with a blond crew cut says. His neck is thicker than his head, giving it a squished look. As if someone had mounted his skull in a hurry, pressing it down into the nape with too much force. “Ms. Wright.”
    I don’t hesitate. I throw my arms out in front of me and shove the men back. Their bodies slam into the wall and then through it, ripping holes in the plaster.
    We run, spilling out into the nook cradling the back exit. The cat screeches, leaping out of the window box and over the fence. We squeeze down the walkway to the street. As soon as we’re immersed in the crowd, we slow our pace. We walk like perfectly calm and rational people. It’s fun pretending.
    “Damn,” Gideon