The realization hits me harder than the asphalt. He is deliberately running into the sniper’s scope to pull the crosshairs off me. He is trading his life for mine without a microsecond of hesitation.
"Go!" he screams, firing his Glock blindly toward the roof of the warehouse to suppress the shooter.
I run.
I sprint toward the south side of the building, my breath tearing at my throat. The loading bays are a row of corrugated steel doors, dark and rusted. The security light flickers and dies, plunging me into blindness. I stumble over a pallet, catchingmyself on the rough brick wall, and scramble into the narrow service alley between two structures.
Behind me, the gunfire changes rhythm. The rhythmiccrack-crack-crackof the rifle is answered by the rapid, angrypop-pop-popof Killian’s handgun.
He is engaging. He is fighting a rifle with a pistol to buy me time.
The alley is a canyon of shadows and garbage. It smells of rotting cardboard and wet iron. I move through it, my body remembering lessons I haven't used in fifteen years.Keep low. Check the corners. Don't stop.
I hear footsteps behind me.
They are not Killian’s. Killian moves like a tank. These steps are light, quick, skittering. The cadence of a pursuit. The sniper has a spotter, or a ground team.
I duck behind a rusted dumpster, pressing my back against the cold, wet steel. I draw the Beretta from the vest. My hands are shaking so badly the gun rattles against the holster. I grip it with both hands, forcing the tremors to subside.
Breathe,Yosef’s voice whispers in my memory.The shake is just energy. Use it.
The footsteps slow. Stop.
Silence stretches, thick and suffocating.
Then, the scrape of a boot on concrete. Close. Maybe five feet away.
The barrel of a weapon appears around the corner of the dumpster—a compact submachine gun, ugly and black. The manfollows it. He is young, wearing a dark hoodie, his face pale in the gloom. He sweeps the muzzle toward my hiding spot.
I don't think. I lunge.
I grab the barrel of his gun with my left hand and yank it downward. The heat of the barrel sears my palm. The man yelps, stumbling forward, his finger clamping down on the trigger. A burst of gunfire tears into the concrete at our feet, deafeningly loud in the confined space. Concrete chips spray my legs.
He slams into me. He’s heavier than he looks, panicked and strong. We crash into the side of the dumpster. The submachine gun is a metal bar between us, crushing my chest. He headbutts me—a clumsy, desperate blow that splits my lip and fills my mouth with blood.
I can't get the Beretta up. He’s pinning my right arm.
I let go of his gun with my left hand. I jam my fingers into his eyes.
He screams. His grip loosens just enough.
I shove him back, creating six inches of space. I bring the Beretta up, jamming the muzzle under his chin, into the soft flesh of his throat.
I pull the trigger.
The gun bucks in my hand. The sound is a physical blow, a thunderclap that rings in my skull.
The man’s body goes rigid. His eyes roll back. Then he collapses, all the strings cut at once. He falls onto me, heavy and dead, sliding down my chest to the wet ground.
I scramble back, kicking his legs away. I press myself against the brick wall, gasping for air, the gun still raised, pointing at the corpse.
Blood is sprayed across the front of my jacket. Dark, hot speckles on my hands.
I killed him.
I stare at the body. He looks like a kid. Maybe twenty. A Bratva soldier who thought this was just another job.
Twenty seconds ago, he was hunting me. Now he is meat.
