I don’t give a fuck.
“Take them out!” I order my men.
And we do. I lift my automatic, and I pull the trigger.
The inner courtyard is a battlefield—Dimitri’s guards lie groaning or still, some already dead, others scrambling to beg for mercy they’ll never receive.
My men are mopping up what’s left, grim-faced, efficient.
I don’t stop. I don’t speak.
I just move.
Every wall I pass feels like it’s holding her scream.
Every door I kick open should have her behind it.
Every second I waste is a second she’s in there, scared, suffering, maybe bleeding.
Motherfucker. I close my eyes, willing the image of a hurt Cece from my mind.
The gates are unguarded.
Or they should be.
Two men stand there—my men. Or so I thought.
They straighten when they see me, hands going to their weapons.
“You! What are you doing here?”
“Wait! No?—”
I shoot the one in the head before he finishes his sentence.
The second barely has time to gasp before my blade is in his throat.
Traitors.
Dimitri’s rot has spread further than I knew.
I shove through the entrance.
I hear footsteps pounding behind me—my men, shouting that the Sigma operatives Luc sent are five minutes out, maybe less.
Five minutes.
That’s too long.
I’ve already lost too many.
Another guard steps into my path, raising his gun, but he hesitates.
He recognizes me.
He shouldn’t have betrayed me.
I disarm him, slam him into the wall, and snap his neck cleanly.
