One. Two.
Both shots landed.
He went down screaming, legs folded under him like snapping scaffolding.
Rory, Julian, and Henri came charging up to me just as I lunged toward the writhing bastard.
“Secure him!” I snapped.
Rory stomped on the man’s wrist when he tried to reach for his pistol. Julian crouched and stripped him of his comms, blades, and phone.
I pulled my phone from my jacket, already dialing DarkMatter. “I want a cleanup crew here now. No witnesses.” I shared the address and ended the call.
Rory flipped the guy on his stomach and zip-tied his wrists.
“Find Lucian,” I growled. “Then bring the SUV around.”
Henri grabbed the body of the man I’d dropped with the headshot and started hauling it toward the curb.
I turned back to the one who was still alive. He lay on the concrete—bleeding, howling, panting.
I grabbed his hair and yanked his head up.
“Where are they taking her?” I asked.
He grinned.
Then spat in my face.
I wiped it off with my sleeve and punched him so hard his head cracked as it bounced off the pavement.
He went limp.
Rory came shuffling back out the door a moment later, blood streaked down the side of his face.
Lucian’s arm hung over Rory’s shoulders, his body a deadweight as Rory half-carried, half-dragged him toward us. Rory’s grip was iron clad—he had one hand clamped around Lucian’s wrist, the other tight at his waist. Lucian sagged against him, boots scraping the pavement with each step.
Lucian’s shirt was ripped and clinging to him with sweat. His lip was split, one eye already swelling shut, and blood dripped steadily from a gash above his brow.
“Found him dragging himself through the building,” Rory grunted. “He was practically crawling, and he’s bleeding like hell from that head wound.”
“Son of a bitch came out of nowhere,” Lucian muttered roughly. “Got behind me—pistol-whipped the fuck outta me.”
“Set him down and go,” I ordered.
Rory lowered Lucian carefully, propping him against a barricade pole jutting out of the sidewalk. Lucian struggled to pull the keys to the SUV from his pocket. Rory grabbed them, then took off running back toward the building, shouting over his shoulder, “I’ll get our ride and haul ass to come get you!”
His boots pounded against the concrete as he disappeared back into the building.
Henri dropped to one knee beside the bastard I’d kneecapped. Blood poured from both the man’s legs, pooling fast beneath him.
“He’s fading,” Henri said. “Could’ve hit an artery—he’s bleeding out fast.”
“He lives,” I said coldly, “long enough to talk.”
Julian crouched beside him, yanking his belt free and wrapping it tight around one of the man’s thighs. “You heard him. Clamp that leg off—tight enough to hurt.” Henri mirrored him on the other leg.
Just then, the man came to, screaming when they drew the belts tight and buckled them down.
