I don’t. I sweep his leg in one fluid motion, boot hooking behind his ankle. He topples, arms windmilling. Before he hits the ground I stomp down hard on his throat—cartilage crunches and his windpipe collapses. He gurgles once, then goes still.
Caulfield scrambles up, snatching the gun. His hand shakes, just like the amateur gangster he is. He fires—wild, panicked. The shot goes wide, punching a hole in the drywall behind me. Plaster dust drifts down like snow.
“Fucker!” Caulfield cries, a manic edge to him that I haven’t witnessed before. He’s rattled. But that might just make him dangerous.
He bolts—toward the spiral staircase at the far end of the room. Boys scream, scattering. I chase, my boots pounding marble, blood still slick on my knuckles from the basement. Caulfield is fast when he’s scared—up the curving stairs, two at a time, glancing back with terror in his eyes.
I hit the stairs hard, taking them in leaps. He reaches the top, disappears down a hallway. I follow, lungs burning, ribs grinding with every breath.
The hallway is long—doors on both sides, modern art, recessed lighting. Caulfield’s footsteps echo ahead. This might be his house, but he won’t lose me. No chance.
Caulfield bursts into what must be his bedroom and I follow behind. It’s a massive space, king bed, glass wall overlooking the estate grounds. Moonlight pours in, silver and cold. He spins, gun up. Fires again. The shot shatters a vase on a side table behind me—glass explodes, shards raining down.
I duck behind a tall armoire, my heart slamming. He’s cornered. Balcony doors behind him—open to the night.
There’s only one way out.
But time isn’t on my side. Caulfield’s men will swarm soon—alarms must be screaming somewhere. I need to end this now.
I say a quick prayer—silent, wordless.
Then I charge.
Out from cover, I run straight at him. He fires—misses again, the bullet punching into the wall. I close the distance in three strides, grab his wrist, twist hard. Bone cracks. The gun clatters to the floor.
We scuffle. It’s close, brutal. If I wasn’t inured it would be easier, but with my aching joints Caulfield manages to put up a fight.
This ain’t over.
He claws at my face, I drive a knee into his gut. He doubles over, gasping. I grip his neck—one hand around his throat, the other fisting his shirt. We stumble backward toward the balcony railing.
Caulfield’s strong—perhaps a panic-fueled strength—but I’m stronger.
I lift, then shove. His back hits the railing. The low balcony wall behind us—stars and darkness beyond.
“Viktor…wait—” His voice is choked, pleading.
I tighten my grip. “You tried to kill me. You tried to take everything.”
His eyes bulge. “I can pay?—”
“No.”
I lift him off his feet, tilt him backwards, then let go.
Caulfield topples backward over the wall—arms windmilling, his screams cut short as he falls.
The drop is long. Concrete below. I hear a thudding crunch when he lands.
I lean over the edge and look down. Caulfield lies broken, blood pooling under his head like spilled ink.
But I have no time to contemplate my victory. Bullets rip through the air—automatic fire from below and above. Caulfield’s men are going out in ablaze of glory and I need to make sure that I’m not one of their victims.
I jump sideways onto the thick drainpipe running down the side of the house. It groans under my weight but holds. I slide, boots scraping metal, sparks flying. Bullets ping off the pipe, off the wall. I drop the last ten feet, roll on the grass, come up running.
Gunfire erupts behind me, then ahead.
My men.
