Pouring in through the smoke, at least twenty operators in tactical gear flood the building. I freeze, unable to move, but the team is already in motion. Odd pushes me down behind the counter, shooting one man in the chest.
Rafi dodges a blow to the head before angling the gun still in his shoulder holster at his attacker, squeezing the trigger with two quick pulls. Ducking through the scrum of bodies, he jumps up on the countertop and yells for Everett.
Wordlessly, Everett wrestles his way through the crowd and stacks ammo at Rafi’s feet before engaging the next enemy. Rafi, meanwhile, is an unholy terror, targeting anyone in direct combat with a Guardian. He wastes not a single bullet.
I’m unable to do anything but watch, helpless as the violent tableau plays out before me. The team is overwhelmed but not overcome. It is one thing to see the Guardians prepare for combat on a screen in my condo in Dallas. It is another thing entirely to see the cloak of war descend on them, each holding their own in a series of life-or-death battles in the tight space.
A guy the size of Thane grabs Abigail and quickly realizes his mistake. Within seconds he’s on the floor, two bullets in his head. Ronan is rushed by three guys and puts the first two down without hesitation, one with a bullet, the other with an arc of silver into the man’s temple. Thane catches the third man by his throat, swinging him high over his head before slamming him down onto the concrete floor, stilling him forever. Omar takes a kick to his chest and drops to the ground, using the momentum to bring the asshole down with him. He grabs the man by his ears, bashing his head into the concrete floor until it goes soft. More people in black gear make their way into the shop.
"Ammo, guns!" Thane shouts to the team,
Odd looks toward the PTN, where Anders and Parker were last seen. He scales the couch and is confronted by two soon-to-be-very-dead men.
As I track his movement, the front door swings open again. Instead of more random henchmen, it’s him. Greg. He never could fucking stay away, worse than even me. He spies Odd and begins making his way around the violent clashes, rifle at his side. Anders flings open the Portal door, immediately pushed back inside by a dozen black hats.
Quicker than he seems capable of, Greg spins the rifle in his hand, grabbing the barrel like a baseball bat. Cocking back, he swings with the full force of his body, catching Odd on the upswing. The impact is so violent that his feet leave the ground and the sound of his jaw breaking can be heard across the violence. He lands on the floor with a terrible crash, taking my heart with him.
Just as panic seizes my body, Odd shudders. He’s still conscious and breathing, raggedly. His face…his beautiful face is broken. His jaw is dislocated and his ear hanging on by the thinnest piece of skin. Greg’s satisfied smile sickens me. Any doubts about why he fucked with the data and endangered my people go out the window. Along with any pity for his blackened, broken heart. At this moment, all I am is revenge and white-hot rage.
You do not disfigure my man and get to live.
Shaking off the freeze, I breathe in gun powder and blood, my body flexing with power. Years of combat training propel me through the bodies between us like a shark moving through water. Greg raises the rifle above his head to finish the job and I hurl myself at him, knocking him against the wall. Wrestling for control, I grab his arm in an ugly lock. I wrench down as I shove my titanium knee up against his elbow, breaking it. The rifle clatters to the floor. He’s screaming in pain, but I can’t hear him. I’m also pretty sure I pissed off my knee, but I’m oblivious to anything but the sound of Greg’s still-beating heart.
Crowding him against the wall, I slide my hand to the back of his head, wrenching his chin upward at a devastating angle, splintering the bones in his neck. It’s an ugly thing, breaking a neck, but I’ve had practice. He isn’t dead, at least not yet, but I wasn’t trying to kill him quickly. I let go of his head, and he collapses to the floor, a broken marionette. His eyes widen in terror when he realizes his brain has been severed from his lungs.
Pretty sure this is how Anders feels when he kills someone, and I fear I’ve judged the man too harshly. Already bored with the dying man, I turn to search for Odd, only to see him disappear into the Portal to Nowhere, Greg’s rifle in hand.
28
Odd
Admiring my new rifle, I put my ear in my pocket, saving it for later. I check in with my jaw and, yep, definitely broken and dislocated. That smarts a bit more than I’d like it to, but my brother needs my help.
I rush into the Portal, and Anders and I make eye contact from across the room. He's in the interrogation room, his favorite place, and he’s surrounded by a handful of dead bodies. Parker’s hiding behind him, a gun in her shaking hand and blood splatter on her favorite dress. He and I up-nod each other—there are eight men between us—and with a few quick looks and hand gestures, we’ve called our targets. Time to get to work.
I use the rifle to take the first one out, but quickly realize how painful kickback can be when your jaw is fucked six ways to Sunday. I switch to my handgun and the next two go down much more smoothly. My brother isn’t in a gun mood, so he grabs bad guy number four by the scruff, slamming his head against the tile wall before pulling him up and impaling his temple on a conveniently placed meat hook.
I dodge a shot, which takes out one of the flatscreens. “That was an expensive TV,” I mutter, closing the distance on the shooter. After a bit of wrestling—also not fun for my jaw situation—I shove my gun up under his chin and pull the trigger. That’s number five, but six is already on top of me, slashing away with a knife. He knocks away my gun, slicing the fleshy part of my hand. Fucking ouch again.
I step in close and snap his wrist with my bloodied hand, catch the falling knife with the other, and gut him on the upswing. Pizza, I'm guessing. I turn to find Anders manually removing the larynx of number seven while asshole number eight rushes him. As I’m scrambling for my rifle, number eight is blown back, a huge chunk of his skull disappearing in a fog of blood. Confused, Anders looks behind him, and Parker is standing there, shrugging with the gun.
I mentally add a happy hour for Parker’s first kill to the schedule while Anders drops the larynx and grabs Parker up in a big bear hug.
“Dammit, Anders, you’re ruining my dress!”
I grab a gun from the floor and make my way out into the shop, relieved to see that our folks are the only ones left standing. DeShaun is hovering over Greg’s body, watching him struggle to breathe. Wailing sirens fill the air.
“Hey, baby,” I say softly, trying to avoid both startling him and creating any more agony for my jaw. It’s a fail on both counts.
Recovering quickly, he reaches for my face. I pull back, pointing to the tragedy that is my once-impeccable jawline.
“Your ear!” he says, horrified, limping slightly.
Oh, yeah. Forgot about that. "Hazards of the job,” I mumble painfully, pulling it from my pocket. “Your knee, baby. Let’s sit down.”
“Oh my god, Odd—your jaw!” He reaches for me again, and I throw my hands up, it’s too painful for any contact. He looks so forlorn about my injuries that I dare not say how minor these actually are, comparatively. “Where the fuck is your brother?” he asks, looking around.
“I’m here.” Anders saunters up to us, syringe in hand. “Give me that." He grabs my ear, examining it. "I've never tried this before, but let's see if it works."
