The grate overhead lifts just an inch— But enough.
A gloved hand slips through first.Then a knife.Curved.Serrated.Silent.
They're coming in quietly.
Wrong move.
I surge forward and fire once into the duct.Metal screams.Something inside grunts—low, pained—but another body shifts behind it.
Two.Maybe three.
“Kelly,” I growl, “stay hidden.”
Silence behind me, except for her shaky inhale.But no argument.No panic.
Good girl.
The vent above snaps, metal clattering, and the full weight of an attacker drops through the opening, landing in a crouch ten feet away.
He’s masked.All black.Bulky enough in combat gear.
He rises slowly, knife in one hand, pistol in the other.
The fucker thinks he’s even with me.
I fire—But he’s fast.
He rolls behind a support beam, my bullet pinging off concrete.A second attacker drops into the room right after him—this one smaller, quicker, already springing toward my side.
I pivot.Shoot.Hit the second one in the shoulder.
He shrieks, a wet, tearing sound, as the impact sends him tumbling to the ground.
The first guy fires back, three shots in quick succession.Sparks rain off steel where they hit, ricocheting just past my arms.One grazes my bicep, a burning slice of fire.
“Riot!”Kelly cries from behind the door.
“I’m good,” I bark, ducking behind a metal ridge.“Don't move.”
The room explodes into chaos, footsteps, grunts, the smell of gunpowder and concrete dust.
The large attacker rushes me.
He thinks close combat is a good idea.He thinks size matters here.
He’s wrong on both counts.
He swings the knife, wide, sloppy.
I catch his wrist mid-arc, twist hard, and slam his hand into the wall.The blade clatters to the ground.He punches with his other hand, hammering into my ribs, but adrenaline numbs it.
I ram my forehead into his mask.He staggers.I press my advantage, driving two punches into his throat.
He wheezes.Crumples.
Behind me, the smaller attacker tries to stagger up, gun raised despite blood dripping down his arm.
I fire once.
