"...basement clear. No sign of entry." "Check the morgue again. The Director is slippery."
They are heading toward us. There is nowhere to hide. The corridor is a straight shot. I look at Alaric. He tightens his grip on the bone saw. He nods at the door to our right—a janitor's closet. It’s too close to the intersection. If we open it, they might hear the latch. But if we stay, we are dead.
I make a choice. I don't hide. I step out into the middle of the hallway. I slump against the wall, sliding down until I am sitting on the floor, looking like a broken doll. I bury my head in my knees. I start to sob—loud, wet, hysterical sounds.
Alaric’s eyes widen in the shadows. He understands. He slips into the alcove of the boiler room entrance, just behind me.
The footsteps speed up. "Contact!" one of the mercenaries barks. "Female. Unarmed."
They round the corner. Two of them. White camo turned grey by the gloom. Assault rifles raised. They see me. A girl in wet clothes, shoeless, crying on the floor. They relax. Just a fraction. Predatory instinct kicks in. They don't see a threat; they see prey.
"Well, look what we have here," the lead man says, lowering his rifle slightly. "The Asset."
"Director Graves?" the second man asks, scanning the hall.
"He's dead," I sob, lifting my head. I make sure my face is a mask of terror. "He drowned. In the river. Please... help me."
The leader chuckles. "Drowned like a rat. Good." He walks toward me. He reaches for his radio. "Command, this is Team 4. We secured the Asset. Graves is K.I.A."
He stops two feet away from me. "Get up, sweetheart. The Buyer is waiting."
He reaches down to grab my arm. He enters my space. He enters the kill zone.
Now.
I don't get up. I launch myself upward. My right hand—concealed behind my back—whips forward. The scalpel flashes in the blue light. I aim for the gap between his helmet and his body armor.The carotid.
The blade sinks in. It feels like cutting through a tough steak. Then, a pop. Hot, pressurized liquid sprays across my face. The man gurgles, his hands flying to his neck, dropping his rifle.
"Contact!" the second man screams, raising his weapon.
He doesn't get to fire. From the shadows behind me, a dark shape lunges. Alaric. He swings the bone saw like a hammer.CRACK.The heavy motor housing connects with the second man’s helmet. The sound of plastic shattering is sickening. The man drops like a stone, unconscious or dead.
The first man—the one I cut—is on his knees. Blood is jetting between his fingers, painting the wall, painting me. He looks atme with wide, shocked eyes. He can't breathe. He can't speak. He falls face forward. He twitches once. Then stops.
Silence returns to the hallway, broken only by the drip, drip, drip of blood.
I stand there, panting. I am covered in it. It’s in my mouth. It’s in my eyes. I killed him. Up close. With a knife.
Alaric steps over the second body. He kicks the rifle away. He looks at me. He doesn't ask if I'm okay. He knows I'm not. He knows I am something else now. He reaches out with his thumb and wipes a splatter of blood from my cheek. He brings it to his lips. He licks it.
"Perfect execution," he whispers.
It is the most twisted praise I have ever heard. And God help me, it steadies my hands. "We need their weapons," I say, my voice devoid of emotion.
Alaric nods. "Take the rifle. It’s an HK416. Low recoil. Can you handle it?"
"I'll figure it out." I pick up the rifle. It is heavy, smelling of oil. I strap it across my chest. I take the dead man’s sidearm—a Glock—and tuck it into my waistband. Alaric takes the other man’s pistol. He can't use a rifle with one arm.
"Service ladder," he commands.
We leave the bodies where they fell. We climb. The ladder is inside a narrow maintenance shaft. It is cold and greasy. Alaric struggles. I have to push him from below, my shoulder under his good buttock, heaving him up rung by rung. He is bleeding through the bandages again.
"Second floor," he gasps.
We reach the grate. Alaric peers through. "Clear." He pushes the grate open. We crawl out.
We are in the West Wing hallway. The carpet here is plush. The walls are lined with art. But the vibe is wrong. Doors are open. Papers are scattered on the floor. It looks like a looting.
