“Do they? Or did you tell them you were handling this alone? Like you always do?”
Silence.
I moved closer. Found a position where I could see without being seen. Four men with Cal. Professionals. Armed. Positioned in ways that covered all exits.
This wasn't interrogation. This was execution.
Cal saw it too. His posture changed. Went from investigator to survivor in a heartbeat. “This is a mistake. Killing me doesn't solve your problem. It makes it worse.”
“Killing you solves several problems actually.” The older man—Harrow's fixer from the surveillance photos—moved closer. “You've been persistent. Expensive. Harrow's tired of managing you. So we're removing you from the equation.”
“Harrow knows I've documented everything. Shared it with multiple sources. Kill me and it all goes public.”
“Bluff. You're too paranoid to trust anyone with your evidence. Too convinced you're the only one competent enough to see this through.” The fixer smiled. “You're predictable, Mercer. That's your fatal flaw.”
The first attacker moved. Cal blocked. Countered with technique that was textbook perfect. But four against one with no weapons meant inevitable outcome.
I moved before conscious thought. Grabbed the nearest attacker from behind. Arm around his throat. Squeezed until vertebrae cracked and he went limp. Dropped him. Engaged the second before anyone could process what was happening.
My fist caught his temple. He staggered. I followed with knee to solar plexus that folded him. Grabbed his gun as he fell. Put two rounds into the third attacker's chest before he could raise his own weapon.
The fourth attacker—the fixer—dove for cover. Fired blindly. Bullets sparked off metal machinery. I used the chaos. Grabbed Cal. Pulled him toward the exit.
“Dom—what the fuck?—”
“Run. Now. Argue later.”
We ran. Down corridors that became maze. Behind us, footsteps. More than four. Reinforcements.
This had been coordinated. Harrow had planned for Cal's arrival. Had prepared extraction team. Had set the trap knowing Cal would walk into it because Cal couldn't resist bait that promised answers about cases he couldn't let go.
An attacker appeared ahead. I didn't slow. Just lowered my shoulder and drove through him like he was training dummy. His ribs cracked on impact. He went down screaming.
Cal kept pace beside me. His breathing hard but controlled. Mind already working through exits and contingencies despite adrenaline.
“Service stairs,” he said. “Left corridor. Leads to basement exit.”
I followed his direction. Trusted his photographic memory over my instincts. We hit the stairs. Took them three at a time. Burst through basement door into alley that smelled like rubbish and rain.
More men. Two. Waiting.
I didn't have the gun anymore. Had dropped it during the run. Just had hands and rage and the particular violence I'd learned from years protecting people who couldn't protect themselves.
The first man swung a baton at my head. I caught his wrist. Twisted. Felt bones snap. Used his momentum to slam him into the wall. His skull made wet sound on brick. He slid down unconscious.
The second pulled a knife. Came at me low. Trying for kidneys. I pivoted. Caught his knife hand. Broke his elbow with leverage and force that made him scream. Took the knife. Drove it into his thigh. Arterial. He'd bleed out in three minutes without tourniquet.
Cal was staring at me. Eyes wide. “You just?—”
“Later.” I grabbed his hand. “We need to move before more arrive.”
By the time we reached my car, we'd lost pursuit.
I drove.Not to Ravenswood. Too many questions there. Too much Adrian wanting explanations about why I'd gone after Cal alone.
I drove to Cal's flat. Parked badly. Hauled him upstairs before he could protest.
Inside, I locked the door. Turned to face him.
