The movement is a blur.
Jackson doesn’t lunge at the men standing over him. He drops flat, sweeping the leg of the man with the zip ties. The man hits the pavement hard.
The rifleman panics, swinging his weapon down.
Jackson rolls, coming up inside the rifleman’s guard. He drives a knife—one I didn’t see him draw—up under the man’s chin.
A gurgle. A spray of dark fluid.
The man holding me flinches. His grip loosens for a microsecond.
Partners make tactical decisions.
I don’t wait for Jackson to save me. I stomp my heel down on the man’s instep, putting all my weight into the blow.
He grunts, distracting him.
I drop my weight, twisting away from the gun barrel just like Jackson showed me in the safe house. The gun goes off—a deafening crack right next to my ear. The muzzle flash blinds me.
But I’m free.
I stumble back, raising my Glock.
The man swings his weapon back toward me, rage twisting his face.
“No!” Jackson roars.
He hurls the knife. It catches the man in the shoulder, burying to the hilt. The man screams, dropping his gun, clutching the wound.
Jackson is on him in a heartbeat. He tackles him into the brick wall. The sound of the impact is sickening. Jackson doesn’t stop. He strikes—once, twice, three times—brutal, efficient blows that silence the scream.
The man slides down the wall. He doesn’t get up.
Silence crashes back into the alley.
Jackson stands over the body, chest heaving. He wipes blood from his face—not his own. He turns to me.
“Check in,” he rasps.
I holster my weapon with shaking hands. “I’m—I’m functional.”
He crosses the distance between us, grabbing my shoulders, his eyes scanning me for holes. “He fired. Did he hit you?”
“Missed. I stomped his foot.”
A savage grin breaks through the blood on his face. “That’s my girl.”
“Fuse, sitrep!”Ghost’s voice barks in my ear.“We heard shots.”
“Contact,” Jackson says, touching his comms. “Three hostiles down. We are green.”
“Move your ass,”Ghost says.“You just woke up the whole building.”
Jackson retrieves his Glock and his knife. He wipes the blade on the dead man’s tactical vest.
“Ready?” he asks me.
I look at the three bodies. The violence is real now. Visceral. But my hands aren’t shaking.
