One of them is moving behind her while she's focused on the other two. He's got the angle, raising his weapon.
TWO
Sawyer
I double-tapthe man with a bead on Savannah, hitting his center of mass. The suppressed shots are barely audible over the chaos.
He drops, and suddenly everyone's reacting. One hostile spins toward me, and I put two in his chest, one in his head.
The shots group perfectly—a triangle pattern that drops him instantly. Training takes over, and I'm already shifting aim to the next target, but the third grabs Savannah before I can engage, arm around her throat, using her as a shield.
"Federal agent!" he shouts. "Drop your weapon!"
He's got good positioning—her body blocks most of his center of mass, and he's smart enough to keep his head moving, not giving me a clean headshot. His finger is on the trigger, not in the guard—he's ready to fire.
The laptop taped to her chest makes her torso rigid, harder for her to bend or twist out of his grip.
But I watch her eyes as she processes the situation. No panic, just calculation.
She's testing his stance, the way his weight is distributed. Her hand goes to her ear—casual, like she's in pain. She's thinking,planning, about to do something that's either brilliant or going to get her killed.
Her gaze meets mine across the destroyed apartment. Hazel in the photos, but green in this light, with gold flecks that catch the emergency lighting.
Instead of panic, I see calculation. She goes limp, playing unconscious, while palming something from her ear.
An earring?
The hostile relaxes his grip slightly, thinking she's out.
She drives the earring post into his carotid artery.
The movement is precise—she knows exactly where the artery runs, precisely how much force is needed. The pearl earring disappears into his neck, and for a moment, nothing happens.
Then the blood comes, pulsing with his heartbeat, spraying in arterial spurts that paint the wall behind them. His hands go to his throat, weapon forgotten, and she spins away from him with a dancer's grace.
He's still standing, eyes wide with shock, when I put a round in his head to finish him.
A mercy, really.
Carotid wounds are a bad way to go—conscious for too long, aware you're dying but unable to stop it.
A sudden silence fills the apartment except for our breathing.
Somewhere in the building, a baby is crying. A car alarm goes off outside, probably triggered by the violence. The apartment smells like blood and cordite and the acidic scent of homemade explosives.
One of the attackers is still alive, the one she set on fire, moaning softly from behind the couch. I move over and zip-tie his hands—he'll live, but he's out of the fight.
She stands slowly, the laptop still taped to her body, kitchen knife in one hand, blood running down the other where shegripped the earring too hard. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, but her eyes are steady on mine.
"You're not FBI." Her accent is pure Georgia honey over steel. Not an observation—a statement.
"Guardian HRS. I'm here to get you out." I scan the apartment, checking for additional threats. "Are you injured?"
She looks down at herself, seeming surprised by the blood.
"None of this is mine." Her hand shakes as she sets down the knife, the first sign of reaction. "They killed three agents in the stairwell."
"I saw them." I move closer, noting how she tracks my movement, still ready to fight or run. Smart. "We need to leave. Now. More will be coming."
