He doesn’t shoot. Doesn’t try to talk. Doesn’t bluff.
He bolts down the far corridor like there’s still a world left to escape into.
“There,” I say, already moving.
Wolf and Havoc peel off to cut angles. I take the straight line.
Boots pound concrete. A door slams. Another.
He knows the building better than he should.
He also knows he’s out of time.
He bursts out onto the catwalk over the old processing floor. Thirty feet down, rusted machinery and shadows.
Dead end.
He skids to a stop and turns, gun shaking in his hand.
“Stay back,” he snaps. “I’ll take one of you with me.”
“Probably,” I say calmly, stepping onto the catwalk. “But not who you think.”
Wolf appears to my left. Havoc to my right.
Rourke’s eyes dart.
“Saint Lawson,” he says. “You should understand. This was never personal.”
I feel something cold and clean settle into place.
“You tried to take my daughter.”
“She wasn’t the target.”
I don’t let him finish that sentence.
He raises the gun.
Too slow.
I fire.
He staggers back, shock on his face more than pain. Fires once—wild—misses by feet.
I fire again.
He hits the railing.
For a second, he just stands there, swaying, staring at me like he’s trying to understand how this is happening.
“Eleanor promised—” he starts.
I fire a third time.
The railing gives.
Rourke Hale falls.
