And one from the east.
The sixth man comes from behind a refrigeration unit, and he changes everything.
Because he doesn't go for me.
He goes for Alessandro.
The man is fast. Trained. He closes the distance while I engage the northern approach.
I fire. Two rounds. Center mass. The first man drops. The Glock barks, the sound deafening in the confined space.
But the sixth man has reached Alessandro.
Alessandro has the Beretta up. He fires. The round catches the man's shoulder, spinning him, but not dropping him. The momentum carries the man forward. He crashes into Alessandro.
They go down.
Alessandro's back hits the concrete. The man is on top of him. There is a knife—a fixed blade, six inches of matte steel—coming down.
Alessandro catches the wrist. Both hands. The blade stops inches from his throat, trembling under the man's weight.
The man's free hand finds Alessandro's throat. Squeezes.
Alessandro makes a sound—a choked, involuntary gasp.
That sound enters my brain and detonates something ancient. Something violent.
He touched him.
The remaining shooters are still in the rows. I have targets to my north and south. Active threats. The Reaper's training says: clear the room. Neutralize the threats in order of priority. Firearms first.
The protocol can go to hell.
I holster the Glock.
I don't need a gun for this. I need my hands.
I cross the distance in three strides. I grab the man by the back of his collar. The fabric bunches in my fist. I haul him backward—two hundred pounds of Russian soldier lifted off Alessandro with a force that tears the seams of his jacket.
I throw him.
He hits the steel shelving unit with a crash that collapses the metal frame. Boxes cascade down.
He’s on the ground. The knife is still in his hand. He looks up at me. He sees my face. He hesitates.
The hesitation kills him.
My boot connects with his wrist. The bone snaps with a wetcrack. The knife skitters away. He screams.
I drop onto him. Knees on his chest. The impact drives the air from his lungs.
My hands find his throat.
Both hands. The full span of my fingers wrapping around the column of his neck.
I squeeze.
Not to choke. Not to subdue. To crush.
