For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. The weight of everything unsaid pressed between us—the fear, the promise, the impossible hope that we might actually walk out of this.
Then he leaned in, forehead against mine. “If anything happens—I want you to know I love you.”
I cut him off with a whisper. “If anything happens, then it happens to both of us. I love you too much not to stand next to you.”
The lights flickered again. Far off, we heard the heavy groan of metal—doors opening deeper inside the warehouse. Viktor’s trap breathing to life.
Beckett pulled back, rifle in hand, eyes cold again. “It’s time.”
I nodded once, the tremor in my chest shifting into steel.
“Together?” he asked.
“Always,” I said.
And side by side, we walked toward the sound of our fate.
84
Beckett
The door didn’t creak—it screamed.
I kicked it open, and the world went white and loud. Gunfire ripped through the warehouse, the muzzle flashes strobing off metal walls. Viktor’s men opened up from behind stacked crates, the echo like thunder rolling through steel.
I hit the floor, pulling Elara down with me, bullets biting sparks from the concrete. “Left side!” I shouted.
She was already there, sliding into cover, returning fire with a precision that made the air sing. One shot, two—both clean. A body hit the ground somewhere ahead, the sound lost under the roar.
“Push forward!” I shouted.
We moved in sync, the rhythm automatic now—cover, fire, advance. The corridor funneled us into a wide bay lined with shipping containers and lit by cold, sterile lights. At the far end, standing in front of a shattered control console, was Viktor.
He didn’t flinch at the bullets tearing up the air around him. He just smiled.
“You made it farther than most,” he called, his voice calm, almost bored. “I should thank you. Grand wanted this city purged of weakness. You’ve done half the work for him.”
“Funny,” I said, stepping into the open, rifle raised. “I was just about to tell you the same thing.”
He tilted his head, amused. “Still a soldier, even when you’re drowning in the bodies you’ve piled up. Tell me—how many more before you start to feel clean again?”
I fired. He moved—fast. The bullet shattered the metal post beside him, and his return shot grazed my shoulder. The pain was sharp, but it cleared my head like a slap.
Elara swung around from the side, her pistol barking twice. Viktor ducked behind a crate, grabbed a fallen rifle, and fired blind toward her. Sparks danced off the wall inches from her face.
“Elara!”
“I’m fine!” she shouted back, voice steady. “Keep him pinned!”
I reloaded, rolled across open ground, and came up behind another container. The whole place smelled of oil, blood, and ozone. My pulse was thunder. The smoke was getting thick.
Viktor’s voice echoed through the smoke. “You think you’ve won because you freed a few hostages? Hydra isn’t an organization—it’s a bloodline. You can’t kill what’s already inside you.”
“Then let’s find out,” I muttered.
He lunged from cover, close enough for me to see the flash of his knife. I barely brought my rifle up in time. The blade caught the stock, splintering wood. He drove forward with brutal strength, slamming me against a steel beam.
I dropped the rifle, blocked the next strike, and hit him across the jaw with my elbow. He staggered, spat blood, and laughed. “Finally,” he hissed. “Something real.”
