"Jagger—"
Looking where the shot came from, I see a gun raise, pointing directly at Jagger. This one's meant for his head.
I move without thinking. Throw myself in front of him. Feel the impact like a hammer blow to my side, just below my ribs.
The pain is extraordinary. White-hot and all-consuming, blotting out everything else. I'm on the ground, I think. I can feel cold grass against my cheek. Can hear someone screaming my name.
But it sounds very far away.
Jagger's hands are on my face. His voice is in my ears, desperate and broken.
"Jonah. Jonah, stay with me. Open your eyes. Look at me."
I try. It's hard. Everything is fuzzy, floating. There's something warm and wet spreading across my stomach, and I know distantly that it's blood. My blood.
"You stupid fucking—" His voice cracks. "Why did you do that?"
"Couldn't let them..." I cough, taste copper. "Couldn't let them take you."
"I'm not worth dying for."
"Disagree."
More gunfire. Close. Jagger's head snaps up, and I see something change in his face. Something that goes beyond rage, beyond fury, into a place that's cold and empty and absolutely terrifying.
"Stay here," he says. "Don't move. Don't die."
"Not planning on it."
He stands. Picks up a rifle from one of the fallen operatives. Checks the magazine with mechanical precision.
Then he walks toward the gunfire.
I should be scared for him. Should be terrified of what's about to happen. But I've seen what Jagger Harrison can do when he's in control. I've never seen what he can do when he's not.
Part of me wants to watch.
The rest of me is busy trying not to bleed out.
I press my hand against the wound, feeling the hot pulse of blood between my fingers. The bullet went through. I can feel the exit wound in my back, ragged and wet. That's good, I think. Better than having the bullet still inside.
Or maybe it's worse. I don't actually know. Medical knowledge wasn't part of my journalism training.
I drag myself closer to a tree, using it for cover, and crane my neck to see what's happening.
Jagger has found Webb's remaining operatives.
There are four of them, spread out across the lawn between the house and the tree line, firing at a shadow that moves too fast to track. Muzzle flashes strobe the darkness, illuminating Jagger for split seconds as he darts between patches of shadow, never staying in one place long enough to be targeted. He's not shooting anymore. He's saving ammunition. Or maybe he just wants to do this with his hands. Wants to feel them die.
The closest dies without making a sound. One moment he's scanning the tree line, the next Jagger is behind him, knife sliding across his throat so deep that I can see the spine. Blood sheets down the man's chest as he crumples, and Jagger is already gone, vanished back into the shadows.
The second one sees it happen. He screams, opens fire on full auto, spraying bullets everywhere and nowhere. One of his own teammates catches a round in the back and goes down hard.
Jagger emerges from the darkness like a nightmare given flesh. He drives the knife through the screaming man's eye, all the way to the hilt, twisting as it sinks through the orbital socket and into the brain. The screaming stops with an abruptness that's almost peaceful. Jagger pulls the blade free with a wet sucking sound, and something gray and pulpy comes with it, clinging to the ceramic edge.
Two left. They're backing toward the house, firing wildly, panic making their aim shit. Jagger walks toward them. Doesn't run. Doesn't dodge. Just walks, steady and relentless, bullets kicking up dirt around him.
One round catches him in the shoulder. He doesn't slow down even as the impact jerks his arm back.
