Jagger doesn't move. His gun is still raised, barrel pointed directly at Webb's face. I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes. Six operatives. Two of us. The math doesn't work. But math has never stopped Jagger before.
"Your brothers are already in custody," Webb continues. "Alive, for now. Their continued survival depends entirely on your cooperation."
That's a lie. I can see it in the way Webb's eyes flicker, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his weight shifts to hisback foot like he's ready to run. He doesn't have Jace and Jinx. He's bluffing.
Which means they're still out there. Which means we have a chance.
"Jagger," I say quietly. "He's lying."
Webb's smile tightens. "The asset speaks. How charming. I was hoping we'd have a chance to continue our work together, Mr. Doe. Your memories have been causing quite a bit of trouble. All those fragments floating to the surface. All those inconvenient truths."
"My memories are the least of your problems."
"Big words from a man with six guns pointed at him." He gestures to his operatives. "Take them. Alive if possible, but I won't lose sleep over—"
The operative closest to me shifts his weight. Left foot forward, right hand adjusting grip on his rifle. He's going to move in the next three seconds. I've seen that stance before, in footage I studied for articles about police shootings. The moment before violence.
I don't think. I just act.
I throw myself sideways, crashing into Jagger, taking us both to the ground as the first shots tear through the space where we were standing. The noise is deafening, bullets punching holes in the wall behind us, plaster raining down like snow.
Jagger rolls, comes up firing. Two shots, two operatives down. Clean headshots that paint the wall with red.
I scramble behind a heavy wooden cabinet, raising the pistol, my fingers finally remembering how to work as they tighten around the trigger. I fire at the nearest shape, miss, fire again. This time the operative staggers, clutching his shoulder.
Webb is screaming orders. The remaining operatives are spreading out, trying to flank us. The room is chaos, muzzle flashes and screaming and the copper smell of blood already thick in the air.
"Kitchen!" Jagger shouts.
I don't question. I run.
Bullets chase me across the room, chewing up the floor at my heels. I dive through the doorway, hit the tile hard, feel something crack in my shoulder. Pain flares white-hot, but I keep moving.
Jagger is right behind me. He slams the door shut, shoves a heavy butcher's block against it. It won't hold for long.
"How many?" I gasp.
"Four left. Plus Webb."
The door shudders as someone throws their weight against it. The butcher's block scrapes forward an inch.
"Back door," Jagger says. "Move."
We run through the kitchen, past gleaming appliances and copper pots hanging from the ceiling. The back door is ahead, a rectangle of darkness promising escape.
I reach for the handle.
The door explodes inward.
I'm thrown backward, debris slicing my face, ears ringing. Through the smoke and chaos, I see shapes pouring through the ruined doorway. More operatives. Webb had backup waiting outside.
Three of them. No, four. Spreading out, rifles raised, moving with coordination that says they've trained together.
I fire from the floor, hitting one in the knee. The kneecap explodes in a spray of bone and cartilage. He goes down screaming, clutching the ruin of his leg, and I roll as his partner returns fire, bullets sparking off the tile inches from my head, shards of ceramic slicing my cheek.
Jagger is already moving. He crosses the kitchen like a ghost, silent and lethal, ducking under a spray of gunfire that punches holes in the refrigerator behind him. His knife appears in his hand, blade catching the light, and then it's buried in someone's throat, severing the jugular.
Blood sprays across his face in an arc. He doesn't blink. Just rips the blade free, spins, and drives it into the next man's eye socket without a word. The operative convulses, hands scrabbling uselessly at the handle protruding from his face, and then goes limp. There’s a wet squelch as Jagger pulls it out of his eye.
