Tall.
Thin.
Shoulders straight.
A silhouette I know.
Roscov.
The bastard smiles when he sees me.
“Ronan Pierce,” he calls, voice dripping venomous delight. “You’re early. We weren’t expecting you until after the final transfer.”
Lena flinches at the sound of his voice.
Something black and lethal surges up my throat.
“Step away from the door,” I warn, my finger tightening on the trigger. “Now.”
He laughs softly. “Or what? You’ll shoot me? You’ll risk hitting her?”
Lena grips my arm. “Ronan, don’t—he’s trying to stall.”
She’s right.
Because behind us, alarms begin to wail again.
A different alarm.
A containment breach alarm.
Cyclone shouts in my ear, “Pierce, the facility’s sealing Level Three — blast doors are closing in ninety seconds. You need to move!”
I pull Lena flush against my side, already pivoting.
“We’re leaving,” I tell her.
“But Roscov—”
“I’ll come back for him. I’m not losing you.”
Her eyes shine with a pain I recognize too well — the emotional kind, not the physical.
But we don’t get to process it.
Because the corridor behind us explodes in gunfire.
Three Ascendancy soldiers rush the hallway, rifles raised.
I shove Lena behind a support beam and open fire. One drops instantly. The second takes cover. The third gets close enough that I feel the air shift as he swings his weapon toward her.
Not a chance.
I break into a sprint, slam into him, and drive my knife into his throat. Hot blood sprays my arm, but I don’t stop.
I never stop.
Not until every threat between her and daylight is gone.
