I raised my gun. He pressed himself against the wall, finally showing fear. But the footsteps were getting closer, and I needed to move. Killing him now would be satisfaction, not strategy. Nikolai would want him alive, want information, want to dismantle the entire network instead of just cutting off its head.
So I shot him in the thigh instead. He screamed, collapsed, blood pooling beneath him. Non-fatal if he got treatment soon. Enough to keep him from running.
The first of his reinforcements rounded the corner as I reached the doorway. I put two in his chest before he could aim, then grabbed the operating table again, shoving it into the hallway as a barrier. More gunfire erupted, bullets pinging off steel and shattering the window behind me.
This was about to get very messy. The monster in my chest sang with anticipation. Finally, something it understood. Finally, a problem it could solve.
I checked my ammunition—eight rounds left in this magazine, two spare clips. The hallway stretched in both directions. More footsteps from the left. Shouting from the right. They were trying to box me in.
The smart thing would be to surrender. Take whatever came next. Avoid starting a war that would put Sophie and the baby at risk.
But I thought about that girl's eyes, the tears on her face, the way she'd run barefoot into the night rather than stay and be butchered. Sometimes the smart thing and the right thing weren't the same thing.
I chose the right thing.
The hallway was about to become a killing floor, and I was the one holding the scythe.
The hallway erupted into chaos the moment I stepped out from the surgery suite. Gunfire came from both directions, muzzle flashes lighting up the sterile white walls like deadly strobe lights. I dropped low, using the operating table I'd shoved into the corridor as cover. Bullets punched through the thin metal, but it was better than nothing.
Three men advanced from the left, spreading out in tactical formation. Professionals, not street thugs. They moved like they'd been trained, covering each other's angles. I waited until they committed to their positions, then came up firing.
The first man took two rounds center mass, body armor absorbing the impact but the force knocking him back. I adjusted, put the third round through his throat. He dropped, gurgling, hands trying to stem the arterial spray.
His partners opened up in response. I felt the heat of a round pass through my jacket, close enough to singe fabric. Anothersparked off the floor inches from my knee. I rolled right, came up against the wall, and put four rounds into the second man. He went down hard, his weapon clattering across the linoleum.
The third man was smarter. He'd taken cover in a doorway, only his barrel visible as he blind-fired around the frame. His rounds went wild, shattering overhead lights and sending glass raining down. I sprinted forward while he fired, counting his shots. Eight, nine, ten—magazine empty.
He came out to reload. I was already there. My fist connected with his jaw hard enough to snap his head back into the doorframe. He slumped, unconscious or dead, I didn't care which.
Behind me, more footsteps. I turned, but too late. A body slammed into me from behind—one of Brand's security who'd come up the back stairs. We crashed through a supply closet door, both of us going down hard among shelves of medical supplies. Boxes of gauze and bottles of saline scattered across the floor.
He was younger than me, faster, and he'd kept his grip on his pistol. He tried to bring it up, but we were too close. I grabbed his wrist, twisted until I felt bones grind. The gun fired, the sound deafening in the small space, bullet punching through ceiling tiles.
He drove a knee into my ribs, forcing air from my lungs. Stars exploded across my vision. But I didn't let go of his wrist. Instead, I twisted harder, putting my full weight behind it. His arm broke with a wet snap, the bone punching through skin. He screamed, the gun falling from useless fingers.
I started to stand, but pain exploded through my left shoulder. Another guard in the doorway had shot me, the bullet tearing through muscle and lodging somewhere near my shoulder blade. The impact spun me into the shelves.
Before I could recover, the guard was on me with a knife. Former military, from the way he held it—blade forward, free hand up to control distance. He knew what he was doing.
The blade came in fast, aimed for my throat. I got my arm up, deflecting it, but he adjusted mid-strike. The knife slid between my ribs on the right side, just below my armpit. Cold steel parting flesh, scraping against bone. The pain was immediate and blinding.
But pain was just information. And I'd been processing that kind of information my entire life.
I grabbed his knife hand at the wrist, holding the blade in place—if I let him pull it out, I'd bleed faster. With my other hand, I reached for his throat. He tried to pull back, but I had reach and desperation. My fingers found his windpipe and crushed.
He let go of the knife to claw at my hand, eyes bulging, face going purple. I didn't let go. Couldn't let go. The monster in my chest was singing now, harmonizing with the pain, turning it into fuel. His struggles weakened. Stopped. I felt cartilage collapse under my grip, felt him die between my fingers.
I let him drop and pulled the knife from my side. Blood immediately soaked through my shirt, warm and too fast. The shoulder wound was bad, but the abdominal wound was worse. I could feel it with every breath, deep and wrong.
The closet spun when I stood. I grabbed the doorframe, forced myself to focus. The hallway was temporarily clear, bodies scattered across the white floor like broken dolls. But I could hear more coming—boots on stairs, voices coordinating response.
I stumbled toward the emergency exit, one hand pressed against my abdomen trying to slow the bleeding. My legs felt disconnected, like they belonged to someone else. Each steprequired conscious thought. Left foot. Right foot. Don't fall. Keep moving.
Blood trailed behind me, a red road map for anyone following. I couldn't help it. There was too much damage, too many holes. The monster in my chest had gotten what it wanted—violence, destruction, purpose—but the cost was adding up fast.
Behind me, Brand's voice echoed down the corridor, high and furious despite his own wound: "Find him! He can't leave this building alive. Whoever brings me his head gets a hundred thousand bonus."
A hundred thousand. I was worth way more than a hundred thousand dead. It was a fucking insult.
