He had come.
He ended the stagehand with a bullet to the face just before he could drop the chair on his head.
Without slowing down, he moved through the chaos. He was a man on a mission—precision in his movements and murder in his eyes. Blood splattered across his side. He didn’t even flinch.
One of the men flanking him raised a gun and dropped a guard with two clean shots. Another of his team barked orders and laid down cover fire as the rest of them advanced up to the stage.
More men in tactical gear poured in from the front—disciplined, brutal, and deadly. Whoever these men were, they weren’t here to rescue anyone. They were here to end everyone in the place.
I scanned the stage for Carlos. He was still at the rig control.
Mr. Stalker saw him too, and he didn’t run. He didn’t shout. He just moved—like a shadow between bodies, sliding behind the curtain.
Carlos glanced up at me, and the rig started moving.
I caught a flash of steel as my stalker came up from behind and hooked his arm around Carlos’s neck. The blade in his other hand glinted in the light. Then he dragged it cleanly and slowly across Carlos’s neck, from ear to ear.
Blood poured.
Carlos’s knees buckled. His body crumpled to the floor, twitching, lifeless.
My stalker wiped the blade on his pants and sheathed it on his hip.
He looked up at me—calm, cool, and collected—then grabbed the lever and began maneuvering the rig. Slowly, he drew me toward him.
I stayed frozen, still clutching the pole, unsure if I was about to be saved or butchered along with the rest.
Then there was a flash.
A shot rang out.
He jumped.
I screamed.
He clutched his side and shook his head, looking somewhat annoyed, as if he’d been stung by a bee.
Another man rushed him from the shadows. He spun, grabbed the attacker’s wrist mid-swing, and twisted, dropping his knee hard. The man howled as his elbow snapped in the wrong direction. Bone tore through skin, and blood sprayed across the wall.
My stalker shoved him away and looked back at me.
“Lyla!” he roared. “Let go! I’ve got you.”
But I couldn’t move.
I didn’t know if I could trust him. Not after what I’d just been through, not after everything he’d done.
But staying in this nightmare would definitely lead to something worse.
Just then, a bullet ricocheted off the pole above my hand.
I whipped my head around.
Delgado.
He stood on the other side of the stage, pistol raised, face stone cold.
I let go.
