I move up the stairs. Silent. Deadly. I am not a husband right now. I am the Wolf. I am the thing that nightmares are afraid of.
I reach the landing.
CRACK.
A gunshot.
It echoes from the east corridor. From my office.
It wasn't a rifle shot. It was the sharp, distinct crack of a handgun. A 9mm.
My Glock.
Ivy.
I break into a run. I don't care about noise discipline anymore. I sprint down the hallway, my boots thudding against the carpet.
I see a shadow in the hallway outside the office door. A man. Big. Russian. He’s shouting something, kicking at the door.
He hears me coming. He spins around, raising an AK-47.
He is too slow.
I don't stop running. I fire three rounds into his chest without breaking stride.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
The suppressor hisses. The bullets impact with a wet thud. The man drops backward, dead before he hits the floor.
I hurdle his body and reach the office door.
It’s shattered. The lock has been kicked in.
I swing the rifle into the room, scanning for targets.
"IVY!" I scream.
The beam of my flashlight cuts through the gloom.
It lands on a body in the doorway. Another Russian. He is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes. A single bullet hole in the center of his throat. A lucky shot. Or a desperate one.
I step over him.
I sweep the light to the corner of the room, behind the desk.
There.
Ivy is crouched in the tight space between the heavy oak desk and the wall. She is shaking violently. She is holding the Glock with both hands, pointing it at the door—pointing it at me.
Her face is pale, streaked with tears and dust. Her eyes are wide, dilated, unseeing. She is in shock.
"Ivy," I say, lowering my rifle instantly. "It’s me."
She doesn't lower the gun. Her finger is white on the trigger.
"Stay back," she whispers. Her voice is a broken rasp. "I’ll shoot. I swear I’ll shoot."
She doesn't recognize me. She is stuck in the moment of the kill.
