Damien jerks back like he’s just recognized what’s actually happening around him. He scrambles for the inside of his jacket, and that’s when Vale stops pretending to be casual.
He explodes forward. Not graceful. Not fucking pretty. His stalk is predatory, filled with malicious intent. One second he’s six steps away, the next he’s got Damien by the lapels and heaves him off his feet, slamming him spine-first into the opposite wall.
The sound it makes — that thick, full-body thud of man hitting brick — echoes wet down the alley.
Damien’s breath punches out of him in a strangled sound. Vale leans in, face too close, eyes black and shining, teeth bared in something that isn’t a smile. “Hi,” he purrs. “We’ve beendyingto have another little chat.”
The last two guards move in a panic reaction — too late to save Damien, but fast enough to make this ugly. One lunges for Vale’s back, while the other pivots toward me and goes for his weapon. Ash’s voice sparks clean in my ear, just in time. “Left, Caelum.”
I drop. The round hisses past where my ribs were half a second ago and slams into the brick, throwing grit. Then I’m up and in, driving my forearm into the shooter’s jaw, hard enough to pop. He staggers, grip loosening just enough. I rip the gun, reverse it, slam the butt into his temple. He drops, boneless.
He’ll wake up.Eventually.
The other one grabs Vale. Or rather…tries.
Vale peels him off Damien without even looking. He twists, catches the guy’s wrist and jerks — fast, vicious, clean. I hear the crack from three meters away. The guard screams, arm hanging wrong now, elbow bent the way elbows don’t bend.
“Shut up,” Vale says conversationally, and buries a fist in the man’s face.
Blood sprays. The man goes down in a heap.
Saint moves to block the mouth of the alley, body turned, gun loose and low but ready. “We’ve got eyes,” he murmurs. “Two onthe corner. Syndicate runners. They’re watching but not moving in yet.”
“Clock’s running,” Ash says in my ear. “You’ve got sixty seconds before either the fire brigade or Syndicate send backup rounds to that end.Move him.”
Damien is wheezing. Vale still has him pinned by the throat — not tight enough to cut air, just enough to keep him docile and struggling without leverage. Damien’s eyes are wide now, fury and panic starting to bleed into real fear. He tries to kick. Vale just shifts his hips and drives Damien harder into the wall.
“Rook,” Vale says, voice bright. “You want him gift-wrapped or bleeding?”
“Breathing,” I say, already moving toward them. “And shut.”
Vale pouts, sighing a little like this is going to cost him something. “You’re no fun.”
Damien finally finds his voice. “Do you have any—”
I don’t let him finish. I slam my fist into his solar plexus, dead center, controlled force. Not enough to break a rib, just enough to knock his breath into next week. He folds forward against Vale’s hold with a choked sound that isn’t even a word.
“That’s better,” I murmur, catching his jaw in my hand and forcing his face up. I lean in close enough for him to see me, really see me. “Morning, Damien.”
His eyes flash, anger and pain simmering underneath the fire I see there. “Voss,” he manages, voice shredded, but determined.
“Mm,” I say. “I was getting worried yesterday you’d forgotten us.”
Spite flickers through the panic. “You have made a very stupid—”
“Shut up, youwanker,” Vale says helpfully, and slams the back of Damien’s head against the brick again.
And that’s when it starts to go wrong. Because panic is loud. Panic draws eyes. Panic makes civilians do the one thing you don’t want in a neighborhood like this: pay attention.
A door at the end of the alley bangs open. Two more guys spill out — Syndicate boys, not freelancers. You can see it in the posture, the matching jackets, the way they talk to each other with a glance.
“Oi!” one of them barks. “What thefuckare you—”
Saint doesn’t even let him finish. He steps forward smooth as a sermon and puts two rounds into the air. One hits the brick an inch from the guy’s face. The other hits the ground between his shoes.
Concrete chips. The sound cracks the alley like a whip. Both Syndicate boys jerk back on instinct, swearing, and stumbling into each other.
Saint smiles. “Walkaway,” he says, voice calm. “Go tell whoever’s paying you that Damien Ruskin isbusytoday. You don’t want this.”
