“The cops aren’t coming.” The leader presses his suppressor against my forehead. The metal is cold, a perfect circle of pressure promising oblivion. “Last chance. The copies.”
My throat muscles seize. My mouth works soundlessly. Terror has stolen my voice completely. No sound emerges, not even a wheeze. Just silent opening and closing like a dying fish gasping for water.
“Wrong answer.”
The suppressor swings away from my head toward my knee. I close my eyes. As if that will change the outcome. As if not seeing will make it hurt less.
But then, something wet and warm spatters across my face.
The grip on my arms goes slack. I open my eyes. The third man by the roof’s edge—the nervous one—has a neat hole in his forehead. Perfect circle, like someone drew it there with a marker. He topples backward without a sound, already dead before he hits.
“Contact—” The leader spins toward the shadows, weapon raised.
The stocky one shoves me aside, reaching for his sidearm. His head snaps back. The back of his skull explodes outward in a spray of blood, brain matter, and bone fragments. He drops, his weight clipping my shoulder as he falls. Hot blood soaks through my shirt, sticky and thick. The smell hits—copper and meat and something organic and wrong, nauseating in its intimacy.
The leader fires three times at the darkness. Desperate. Wild.
A shape emerges from shadow—tall, moving with controlled violence. The leader swings his weapon around, but the manis already there, one hand deflecting the gun while driving an elbow into the leader’s throat.
The leader staggers back, gasping. They trade blows faster than I can track. The shadow moves like water, each strike precise, economical. No wasted motion.
Defense becomes offense, then becomes defense again in a fluid dance of violence.
The leader pulls a knife. Steel catches city light, blade gleaming.
The man shifts, catches the leader’s wrist, twists sharply. The wet snap of breaking bone fills the air—a sharp crack like a branch breaking. The knife clatters across the surface. In the same fluid motion, he drives his knee into the leader’s solar plexus, then brings his elbow down on the back of his neck.
The leader crumples. Doesn’t move.
Three men down.
Maybe fifteen seconds total.
The man turns to me. Light catches his face—angular features, dark stubble, eyes that catalog everything in one sweep. He’s breathing normally, like he just finished a casual jog instead of killing three people.
“Talia Singh?” His voice is deep, controlled. Barely more than a whisper. “Statistical Probability.” He says it with emphasis, and it takes me a while to figure out why he would say those words right now. Then it hits, what the man on the phone said. The code word. I’m supposed to respond, but my voice has fled.
I nod, mute. My voice is a dead thing in my throat.
“Jonah Jackson. Cerberus.” He extends a hand. “We need to move. Now.”
I stare at his hand. Blood-slicked, strong, steady. I take it. His grip is solid, warm, steady against my shaking. Calloused palms. Strong fingers that know exactly how much pressure to apply.
“Can you walk?”
I nod.
“Can you speak?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Shake my head. The mechanism is jammed.
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps. “Injured throat?”
I touch my throat, shake my head again.
“Shock.” Not a question. “Follow me. Stay close. Nod if you understand.”
I nod.
