Footsteps rapidly approach from behind. I tense, curling the blade in my fist and preparing to make my move.
A slimy hand firmly grips my shoulder, flinging me away from Reed. As I whirl backward, I raise my fist and slam it into whatever part of Jabali I can access.
I make contact with the side of his neck, feeling the flesh give way. A satisfying gurgle comes from him.
It’s only then that I release the blade, leaving it protruding from his neck.
His eyes double in size, and his handgun clatters to the ground. Blood jets from the wound, flowing like a red waterfall.
All hell breaks loose.
Trembling, I step aside to give Reed a path to finish what I started. He explodes, launching at Jabali and tackling him to the floor.
Simultaneously, the four SWAT agents spring into action, catching the two STK goons off guard.
Everywhere I look, there’s violence. People fighting for their lives.
It’s . . .?carnage.
Reed’s fist repeatedly pummels Jabali’s face. The thud of skull meeting floor with each punch sends waves of disgust through me.
Trying to block it out, I scurry over and swipe the loose gun so he can’t turn it on Reed. However, I soon realize that won’t be an issue.
Jabali is either unconscious or dead. Either works for me.
Reed acts swiftly to roll him over and divest him of all the other weapons. I kick each one away, keeping the handgun pointed toward the floor.
My focus briefly looks toward the door. The FBI agents have already subdued the remaining bad guys.
“You got him, Hayes?” an agent calls out.
“Affirmative,” Reed answers, the epitome of cool and collected.
Hard to believe he was bristling with anguish only moments earlier. Muscle memory must have taken over, unlocking his training.
I release the shakiest exhale of my life, relief filling my lungs on the next inhale.
We did it. We freaking did it.
But wait. Hold on. Someone is missing.
Scratch that.Twosomeones.
They must have disappeared in the bedlam.
Unable to speak,I meet Reed’s eyes, telegraphing my panic.
“What is it?” he asks.
All I can do is point toward the door and sputter, “They’re gone. Escaped. Got away.”
“Who?”
“Ginny. And Kenzie.”
SIXTY-ONE
It’s like you’re my mirror. My mirror looking back at me.
