“What did you do?” she hisses at Victor.
“Nothing.” He sounds as surprised as she is. “I came alone. You made sure of that.”
The remaining mercenaries are distracted, attention split between us and the chaos above. Their radios crackle with panicked voices. Screaming. Orders barked and cut short.
They haven't tied me again. Underestimating me. I catch Logan's eye.
Now or never.
Pain is just information. That's what the physical therapist said when I was recovering from being shot last year. Pain tells you something's wrong, but it doesn't have to stop you.
My ankle tells me something is very, very wrong.
I don't stop.
I launch myself at the nearest mercenary, driving my shoulder into his knees. We go down hard, his rifle clattering away. My fist connects with his throat, once, twice, and he's gasping, hands scrabbling at his neck.
Logan scrambles up, hands still bound behind him, and throws himself at the other mercenary. They go down in a tangle of limbs, and Logan drives his knee into the man's face. Once. Twice. Blood sprays.
It's messy. Brutal. Desperate. My ankle buckles and I nearly go down, but adrenaline keeps me upright. I wrench the rifle free just as the mercenary recovers, bring the butt down hard on his temple. He crumples.
“Alexander!” My father's voice. I turn to see a third mercenary at the top of the stairs, weapon raised.
I'm not fast enough. I know I'm not fast enough.
Gunfire. The mercenary drops, rolling down the stairs.
Men pour through. Leather. Denim. Hard faces.
Bikers.
My vision swims. I can't focus. One of them moves faster than the others, huge, familiar.
Tank.
“You look like shit, Rhodes.” His voice cuts through the ringing in my ears.
“Feel worse,” I manage, sagging against a crate.
Tank moves to Logan, a knife appearing in his hand, slicing through the zip ties. “Get him up,” he orders someone behind him.
More bikers. Maddox, of all people, moving through the chaos with a blade gleaming in his hand.
“Where's Helena?” I ask, scanning the room.
She's gone. Slipped away in the chaos. The bag with the documents gone with her.
“She ran,” Tank says grimly. “Back exit. I've got brothers on it.”
“Emma.” A sudden jolt. “Where's Emma?”
Tank's jaw tightens. “I'll take you to her.”
Before I can respond, Tank is at my side, hauling my arm over his shoulder. “We're getting you out of here. Now.”
“Logan—“
“We got him. Move.”
