Page 31 of Brutal Captivity

“Status?” Fletcher asks, his actual voice behind me and his voice echoing in my earpiece.

“The other guards seem to be in the same general area as before. They haven't been alerted. I’ll keep you posted,” Evan says.

I motion for us to split up, telling Fletcher and Daron to take the back while I head toward the front. The main entrance is flanked by two guards, chatting casually. Using the perfectly sculpted, heavy bushes for cover, I slide up behind one. I whip open my collapsible baton.

We count each guard as we silently neutralize them. When Fletcher finishes with the sixth and tells me that they will handle the last one of the first level, I search for the staircase.

I move through a maze of corridors, silently cursing the architect. Who needs this much fucking space? I catch the distinct smell of chlorine, signaling an indoor pool. Typical. Callisto’s house has one, too.Stop thinking about the princess, Leo. Focus.

“Eight,” Fletcher reports. A brief struggle must have happened, but Fletcher is a machine. I met Fletcher when he was sixteen, fighting in illegal underground rings for cash. He started running jobs with us a year later.

I will never forget watching the skinny young boy beat the shit out of men twice his age and size for cash. They called him ‘Little Drummer Boy’ because his signature move was a barrage of rapid-fire body blows, treating his opponent like a snare drum.

I finally locate the grand staircase. This entire thing felt like a trek across Middle Earth. I’m going to start calling myself a fucking Hobbit. I better not tell Daron that or he’ll call me Frodo for the rest of my existence even though I have a few inches on him.

“Sully, watch out! Behind you!” Evan yells in my ear.

A floorboard creaks. I spin to find a guard rounding the corner, his hand flying to his holster. His other hand immediately scrambles for his radio headset to alert the house. Adrenaline fires.

I tackle him to the ground then straddle his chest and throw a hard punch to his face, but he dodges it. His fingers still reach for the button, as he throws a punch. It cracks against my jaw, the sound ricocheting in the corridors of my brain. I quickly shake it off, grabbing his hand and wrestling it away from his comm before he is able to alert his team.

Reaching for my tactical pants, I yank my knife from its sheath. In an instant, I drive the blade straight through the meat of his hand, pinning it to the floorboards. He opens his mouth to shriek, but I slam my left palm over his face, muffling the sound into a wet grunt.

His free hand wraps around my neck, squeezing before I even know what’s happening. I wheeze, a gurgling sound coming from my lips as I try and fail to inhale. Panic squeezes my heart like a vice, but I try to stay calm. I panic. I die.

I wrap my hands around the guard's meaty wrist, attempting to break his hold. It doesn’t work. I can’t get leverage, and I’m weak from lack of oxygen. I press the button on my comm, but no sound escapes from my vocal cords.

My vision tunnels, the black edges creeping in. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. This is how I die, and all I can see are green eyes and a perfect fucking smile.No. I have to fight. For him. He is expecting me to come home tonight.

With my last remaining strength, I yank my knife from the guard's palm. He shouts in pain, releasing his grip on my throat long enough for me to bury the knife in his chest cavity. He twitches, then his body goes limp.

Coughing and grasping for air, I roll off him, rubbing my neck. My gold lion pendant is warm, tucked between my shirt and my skin. My vision slowly comes back to normal, and I force my breathing to regulate.

Once I’m strong enough to stand, I rip the radio piece from the guard’s ear and toss it down the stairs. To be safe, I draw my suppressed Glock and put a round through his chest.

“Nine,” I say into the comm, my voice so rough, I barely recognize it. I cough again, eyes watering at the pain in my throat.

“Are you okay?” Evan asks.

“Yeah. Did anyone hear that?”

“Negative. You’re clear,” Evan reassures. “Two left. They’re standing outside of De Luca’s door. Daron and Fletcher are approaching from the west corridor"

I slip down the hall, meeting up with the guys at the intersection. We exchange silent looks, instantly forming a perimeter. Fletcher and I loop around to the opposite side of the hall, leaving Daron to play bait.

At my signal, Daron steps out from behind the wall casually, hand in his pocket, “Hey, do ya know where a man can take a piss ‘round here? I can’t find the damn bathroom in this labyrinth. I’m pretty sure I saw the ghost of David Bowie a mile back, though. Nice guy.”

The guards freeze, completely thrown off by the sheer absurdity of Daron standing there, asking for a bathroom and talking about a dead rock star. That split second is all Fletcher and I need. We drop from behind. The crack of my baton sounds across the quiet corridor, hitting my target perfectly and knocking him out cold. Fletcher cleanly snaps the other guard’s neck with a sickeningcrack.He lets the body drop effortlessly.

“Now what?” Fletcher wipes his hands dramatically.

Before I can answer, a scream pierces the oak of the heavy primary bedroom door.

It’s not De Luca. It’s a woman.

“Status?” I bark into my comm.

“Get in there,” Evan snaps.