Dalton reacted before she’d even processed the scene, lunging forward as he knocked the muzzle to the right, grabbed the guy around the throat. A blast of suppressed rounds ate up the drywall, dropping a section to the floor with a loud clap. The two men hit some open framing, broke through before crashing to the floor on the other side. Nick whistled, and Dalton rolled, served the other guy up as an offering as Nick pulled the trigger, dropped the asshole with a single shot.
Dalton shoved him off, then scrambled to his feet, urging them on at a fast pace. Creaks and taps sounded behind them, more men quickly closing in.
Nick paused once they’d traversed a couple corridors, bending down to her level. Lips pursed tight, eyes narrowed, he looked as if he’d felt every ripple of pain through her side since they’d left her room. “Sweetheart? You still with us?”
She gazed up at him, loving the way his hair teased his eyes, aware she could stare at him forever and never get tired.
Nick frowned, crouched lower, Dalton moving to guard their six. “Sloane, talk to me.”
“I…” Her throat constricted around the words, all her strength fading into the pull of her stitches, what felt like a hint of something wet on her side. She pushed out a slow breath,a hushed whimper clawing free as she closed her eyes, let the darkness claim her.
“Shit. Dalton.”
Nick caught Sloane as she pitched forward, the belt keeping her from slipping out of the chair. He pulled her close, freed the damn buckle, then hoisted her onto his shoulder fireman-style, careful not to compress her injured side. Heat radiated off her skin and into his, the cold reality of their situation hitting home.
If he miscalculated, chose poorly, she’d pay the ultimate price. And that was the only math that mattered.
Dalton had his fingers on her neck as he checked her wound. “Pulse is steady, but she’s pulled out a couple stitches, has some minor bleeding. But nothing life threatening, yet.”
Nick hissed out a curse. “She can’t afford to lose anymore. We need to move.”
“You sure you’re strong enough to carry her? She’s not the only one still recovering.”
“I’m good, just…”
Dalton nodded. He knew the score — fastest route, least amount of resistance, and Dalton would have to take the brunt of the fight.
His buddy picked up the pace, moving with an easy efficiency that brought back Nick’s Delta days. Endless infiltrations through enemy strongholds. How they needed that training if they had any hope of getting out alive.
They hit another corner, turned left, the service elevator staring back at them on the far wall, the doors a swath of gray amidst the black. Dalton took two steps, stopped. The floorended three feet ahead, nothing but narrow steel beams bridging the twenty-foot gap.
His buddy moved to the edge, shined the light down to the lower lever, highlighted the twelve feet of dead air between the girder and the floor. He glanced back at Nick, then started across, still sweeping the area with his weapon.
They made it halfway when a shadow moved past the window on the adjoining wall, a face appearing a breath later. Nick fired, punched three holes in the window, hoping to buy some time as he raced across the beam, nearly tripping a couple times when Sloane twitched.
Dalton didn’t follow. Instead, he took off, jumping across the parallel beams like gravity didn’t apply to him, then covered the open room at a full sprint. He reached the window and continued right through, grabbing the frame, then launching his boots through the scored glass.
It shattered, raining down razor-like shards, the entire frame groaning beneath the strain. Dalton hit something just beyond the glass, sent it flying backwards with a strangled yelp as he flew through, landed on what must have been scaffolding.
Gunfire erupted all around him, sparks lighting up the dark as the bullets glinted off the metal framing. Dalton returned several rounds, then vaulted back inside, landing amidst the broken glass.
The shards crunched beneath his boots as he ran over, grabbed Nick’s elbow, then hauled ass down the remaining hallway toward the service elevator. They reached the freight lift — a manual, gear-driven monster used for hauling supplies. The doors sat halfway between floors, the hand-driven winch locked in place.
Nick eased Sloane against a stack of gypsum boards as Dalton covered their six, rifle shouldered, the man’s gaze tracking every direction at once. Nick tried the manual release,swore he’d popped a blood vessel trying to wrench it open before he darted over to a toolbox — grabbed an oversized wrench.
He shoved the metal bar into the wheel, used the lever to rotate the emergency lock into the open position. The wheel stalled, clinging to the rusted surface before finally slipping. The gears screamed as the lock shifted, the echoing screech grating on Nick’s last nerve. Dalton tensed but didn’t comment, rifle still zeroed in on their six.
The wheel ground out a few rotations, the door finally inching apart. Nick kept turning, mentally counting the seconds in his head. Praying this wasn’t a repeat of the annex — that Sloane wasn’t slowly bleeding out.
He got the doors wide enough to push through when a tactical light flooded the hallway from the broken window. Dalton shifted, finger caressing the trigger, breath evening out, when he grunted, lowered his weapon.
Bodie emerged through the shadows, Buck trailing behind, their carbines sweeping the room. They jogged over, taking up defensive positions on either side.
Buck shook his head. “I gotta say. The lighthouse seemed like a cakewalk compared to this.”
Nick grunted. “More firepower would be nice. Don’t suppose you brought enough for the class?”
“Sorry, brother. Bodie only had two in the back of his truck. And you’ve already got your hands full. But we’ve got your six.”
