The first guard doesn't see Maddox coming. One moment he's leaning against a shelving unit, scrolling through his phone. The next, he's on the ground with Maddox's arm locked around his throat. Silent. Efficient. The man goes limp in seconds.
“One down,” Maddox says, lowers the body quietly.
Ethan stays close behind me, tablet in hand, monitors the security feeds. He insisted on coming. Something about not letting me walk into a death trap without backup. Logan encouraged it, even though I reminded them Maddox is a one-man army.
“I still think we should have brought Tank,” Ethan mutters.
“You could have stayed in the car,” Maddox says.
“And miss the bonding experience? Never.”
Two more guards emerge from behind a stripped-down sedan. These ones are ready. One pulls a knife. The other swings a crowbar.
Maddox takes the knife. I get the crowbar.
The man is fast, I'll give him that. First swing whistles past my ear. Second catches my shoulder, a glancing blow that sends pain radiating down my arm. But he overextends on the third, and I step inside his reach, drive my elbow into his throat.
He goes down choking. I grab the crowbar before it clatters to the concrete.
“That looked like it hurt,” Ethan observes.
“Worse for him.”
Maddox finishes his dance with the knife-wielder. The man crumples with a dislocated shoulder and what's probably abroken nose. Maddox wipes blood from his cheek, nods toward the back office.
“One more outside the door. Then our guy.”
The last guard is bigger than the others. Professional. He sees us coming and doesn't run. Plants his feet, cracks his knuckles.
“Mr. Rhodes,” he says, almost conversational. “You're making a mistake.”
“I make a lot of those. One more won't hurt.”
He moves fast for his size. First punch catches me in the ribs. I feel something crack. Not broken, but close. I grit my teeth, throw myself forward, use my momentum to take us both to the ground.
We grapple in the grime and oil. He's stronger, but I'm angrier. That counts for something. Elbow finds his face once, twice, three times. He bucks me off. I land hard on my bad ankle.
White-hot pain shoots up my leg. I swallow the scream.
Maddox appears above the guard. The fight ends with a sickening thud.
Ethan helps me up. I lean on him more than I want to admit.
“You good?” he asks.
“Fantastic.”
“You're a terrible liar.”
“I know.”
“I hope your ego was worth the pain.” Maddox steps over the body.
The office door is unlocked. Inside, the fixer sits behind a metal desk, hands flat on the surface. Older than I expected. Gray at the temples. Wire-rimmed glasses. The kind of face you'd trust to manage your investment portfolio.
He doesn't flinch when we enter. Just watches us with the calm assessment of a man who's seen worse.
“Mr. Rhodes,” he says. “I wondered when you'd find me.”
