Not fast enough.
I pull the trigger.
The shot is deafening in the enclosed space, the muzzle blast close enough that my ears ring. The second guard goes down, center mass, professional grouping, because even half-dead, I don’t miss. Two rounds in the chest, proper cadence, exactly like I’ve done a thousand times before.
He drops, his rifle clattering across the expensive hardwood.
The guard in my arms is struggling harder now, trying to break free, his hands clawing at my forearm. I can feel the desperation in his movements, the animal panic of a man who knows he’s dying. His nails dig into my skin, drawing blood, but it doesn’t matter.
I tighten my grip.
Feel the moment his struggles weaken. The way his body starts to sag against me, dead weight, his hands falling away from my arm.
Keep pressure for another five seconds to be sure. Count them off in my head. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Then I twist.
Sharp. Controlled. Exact.
The crack of his neck breaking is quieter than I expect, almost gentle. Clinical. Over.
I lower him to the floor carefully, almost reverently, because he was just doing his job and didn’t deserve to die for Aria’s obsession. Then I drag both bodies further into the room, grunting with effort, my leg screaming. Out of immediate sight line, if someone glances through the door.
Strip the first guard of weapons. Glock 19 with two spare magazines in a belt holster. Tactical knife strapped to his vest—KA-BAR, good quality. The second guard has an MP5—classic, reliable, probably three-round burst. I take that too, even though carrying it’s going to be awkward with my leg, slinging it across my back.
Their boots are right there. Good tactical boots, broken in, better than bare feet on hardwood and glass. Size looks about right.
But I leave them.
You don’t wear a dead man’s shoes. That’s a rule. One of the ones that stuck from childhood, from my father’s endless superstitions mixed with his brutality.
“Wear a dead man’s shoes, and you’ll walk his path straight to hell,”he’d say, usually right before he’d beat me unconscious for some imagined slight.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I’m already walking that path anyway.
Doesn’t matter. I’m not wearing the fucking boots.
I move to the door, check the hallway through the crack. Clear for now, but I can hear movement. Voices. The sound of the tactical breach is getting closer, more organized. They’re clearing rooms methodically, no rushing, doing it right.
I step out, moving as fast as my injured leg allows, keeping my weight on my good leg, using the wall for support. The hallway is long, doors on either side, ornate like the rest of this place. Crown molding. Wainscoting. Oil paintings in gilded frames. Old money architecture pretending to be new money, or maybe the other way around. Aria’s trying so hard to be something she’s not.
Footsteps. Heavy. Multiple sets. Coming from the left, moving fast.
I flatten against the wall next to a painting of some dead aristocrat, weapon raised, breathing controlled. Count them by sound—three, maybe four. Close together. Not staggered properly. Mistake.
Three guards round the corner in a tight formation. They see me immediately. Training kicks in—weapons coming up, mouths opening to shout.
I’m faster.
Two shots. First guard down, throat and chest, he drops like his strings were cut. Second guard gets a shot off, the round punching into the wall six inches from my head, showering me with plaster dust, but then I’ve put two in his chest, and he’s falling backward, his rifle clattering away.
The third guard is smarter than his friends. Ducks back around the corner, using it for cover, and I hear him key his radio. “Hostile in the east wing, second floor?—”
Can’t let him finish that. Can’t let him regroup, call for backup, warn whoever else is in this building that I’m loose and armed.
I’m already moving, ignoring the way my leg wants to buckle. Can’t think about the pain, can’t think about the blood I can feel seeping through the bandage. Just move. Just act.
I come around the corner low, MP5 leading, because they always expect you to come around high. He’s exactly where I expect him to be, pressed against the wall, weapon raised to shoot whatever comes through at head height.
