The Revenge by Tijan

A bad sense of déjà vu, again. It was washing over me, giving me chills.

Was that why I wasn’t saying anything? Fitz was here. He had a gun. I’m sure he could overpower him easily. But I knew this guy.

I couldn’t shake this nagging voice in my head.

How did I know him? Was that just the likeness to Kash?

Was it?

That didn’t feel right.

It felt like there was more, something else here. Something I wasn’t remembering—and I remembered everything!

Then we were at the bottom, and the elevator was opening.

I had to alert Fitz. I had to say something. Only Kash knew about raccoons.

Not Kash tightened his hold on me and walked forward.

Kash would not do that. He had carried me. He had led me places. He had guided me. But he never dragged me somewhere, not in the state he had left me.

“The street exit?” Fitz’s question was directed to Not Kash.

“Yeah.”

God. Even his bark was like Kash, the perfect pitch.

I tried to eye him better, to pick up any differences in the face, but he kept his face turned down and away. He was keeping it at an angle on purpose, but it was good. He was good at this, and a chill went down my spine, adding to my alarms.

I had to say something.

How did I know him? And why was that bothering me so much?

But Fitz was going to the exit door. He was opening it. There was a vehicle parked out there. I could see the red brake lights on. Someone was in there and waiting, and this was a setup.

I couldn’t wait any longer, so I spoke, my voice coming out calm. “I know you’re not Kash.”

He froze.

I saw Fitz freeze, and then bam! Both sprang into action.

It took a second for me to comprehend what happened, because I expected Fitz to take him down. That didn’t happen. In fact, pretty much the opposite.

Fitz’s hand went up, but he went to his radio. He had the transmitter button pressed and was raising the unit to his mouth when Not Kash took Fitz down. Not the other way. Not the way I thought, because I fully expected it to be a done deal. I’d say the words and wham!, Not Kash would be unconscious at my feet.

Not what happened.

I was still processing that when he looked at me.

Oh.

Crappers.

Now it was just me, him, that door, and whoever was on the other side of it.

“Ahhh!” A bloodcurdling scream came from me, followed by, “Helllpmeee!”

His face twisted in fury and he began reaching for me.

I dove, and in the back of my mind, I now understood why Fitz went to radio for help—because he needed help! Because I needed help. I dove for his radio; there was a gun in his holster—Fitz’s jacket had opened in his fall—and I reached for that, too.

In my head, I was going to dive, grab both, duck my head. I’d complete a full roll, like I’ve seen volleyball players do in their matches. Why I was remembering volleyball matches from high school, I had no clue, but anyway, that’s not what happened.

First, Not Kash slammed his foot down on the radio.

Okay. I’d work with that, because it took him a second away from where he could’ve used that kick to knock me unconscious. Instead, he stepped on the radio and kicked it away.

And two, the gun was still in his holster. I grabbed it, tried to yank it free. It didn’t come free. It remained in the holster.

How did these get free?

But then Not Kash was reaching for me, and that’s when he messed up.

His touch was gentle. That told me he didn’t want to hurt me. I could work with that. So when he went gentle, I became a snarling dirty street fighter. Or I was doing my best impression, because then I finally did finish my roll (just not with the gun or radio), and the movement yanked me out of his hold. But instead of scrambling and running, I twisted around and went for his ankle.

I was the personification of an ankle biter.

I bit his ankle. Literally.

“Fuck,” he growled, then he grabbed my hair and I was being yanked away.

He was fast losing the whole “gentle” approach, but he didn’t pull me to my feet, and I used that to my advantage, too. I kicked out at his legs, and the movement helped propel me out of his hold again. But then I was on my butt and he was looming over me.

I was out of options.

Our eyes met, and I opened my mouth.

Another scream was coming out of me.

He knew it. I knew it. We were both about to hear it.

But then he lunged, grabbed me, dragged me up, and I was pushed against the wall.

Déjà vu. For the third freaking time.

His hand slammed over my mouth, and he bent low, whispering into my ear, “Shut up!”

Except I wasn’t hearing that. I was hearing, “In two minutes, men will break into your home and take you hostage.”

It was his height.

It was his eyes.

It was his voice, now that it was more rough and he wasn’t trying to disguise it.

There was a sixth sense where you shouldn’t know but you just do. You just know it, and that feeling was inside of me. I knew this guy.

My lungs stopped working.

Everything stopped working.

Recognition crashed into me, overloading my everything, and I swear I heard the circuit breakers in my brain frizz and snap as they stopped working, too.

I knew this guy. I so knew him, and I had known I knew him, and I stopped thinking about what I was doing. I slapped his hand away, grabbed his shirt, and hissed, “I know you!”