“Detail just radioed,” Luce warns. “They know something's wrong.”
“How long?”
“Two minutes before they come looking.”
I hit the second floor at a run. The office is straight ahead, light bleeding out from under the door. I can hear voices inside. Multiple.
“Three targets in the office,” Punk confirms. “Your guy plus two.”
This is about to get messy.
I don't slow down. Don't hesitate. I kick the door open and the Glock is already up, already firing.
Two shots. Center mass. The first guard goes down clutching his chest, blood blooming across his white shirt.
The second guard is faster. He's diving for cover behind a desk when my third shot catches him in the shoulder. He hits the ground hard, weapon skittering across cheap linoleum.
And then it's just me and Theo Jarvis.
He's bigger than his photos suggested. Broader. His suit is expensive but badly fitted, straining across his gut. Graying hair slicked back. Scar cutting through his left eyebrow.
And he's not panicking.
That should've been my first warning.
“Mariee,” he says, like we're old friends. Like he's been expecting me. “They said you'd come.”
I adjust my aim, centering on his forehead. “They were right.”
“They also said—” He moves.
Fast. Too fast for a man his size.
My shot goes wide, punching through drywall, and then he's on me. His shoulder drives into my ribs and we slam into thedoorframe. Air explodes from my lungs. The Glock falls from my grip, clattering somewhere behind me.
I bring my knee up, aiming for his groin, but he twists and takes it on his thigh. His fist comes around, catching me on the jaw, and white light explodes behind my eyes.
“Ivy!” Luce's voice is sharp in my ear. “Three more hostiles incoming! Thirty seconds!”
Jarvis's hands close around my throat.
I slam my palm into his nose. Cartilage crunches, blood sprays, but his grip doesn't loosen. My vision starts to narrow, black creeping in at the edges.
Training kicks in before thought does. I drive my thumbs into the pressure points behind his ears, brutal and precise, and his hands spasm open.
I drop, gasping, and sweep his legs out from under him. He goes down hard, head bouncing off the floor, but he's already rolling, already coming up.
We collide again. His fist catches my ribs—same spot as before—and something cracks. Pain blooms, sharp and white-hot, but I use the momentum to spin inside his guard. Elbow to his temple. Knee to his solar plexus. He staggers back, finally, and I reach for my knife.
The blade whispers out of its sheath.
His eyes track the movement, widening.
“Wait—”
I throw.
The knife tumbles end over end, a silver blur in the fluorescent light—
