The thought sends an unwelcome thrill through my chest that I absolutely cannot afford right now. The last thing I need is to be thinking about silver hair and dark eyes when there are potentially armed men in my home.
I slip my key into the lock with the kind of silence they teach you at Quantico. The deadbolt disengages with barely a whisper. I take a deep breath, count to three, and push the door open fast and low.
The living room looks normal. Too normal. My coffee mug still sits on the kitchen counter where I left it this morning. My laptop is closed on the dining table. Even my throw blanket is draped across the couch exactly like I always leave it.
But someone's been here. I can feel it. The air itself feels different, disturbed, like the molecules are still settling after being moved around.
I move through the space with my weapon raised, checking corners and sight lines the way my training taught me. Kitchen, clear. Living room, clear. The Ghost wall in my kitchen looks untouched, but that doesn't mean anything. A professional would know how to look without disturbing.
Bedroom.
Every step to my bedroom feels like walking deeper into a trap, but I don't have a choice. If someone's here, I need to know. If they're not, I need to figure out what they wanted and why they left.
My bedroom door is closed. I never close my bedroom door unless I have company, and I definitely haven't had company in longer than I want to think about.
Definitely not alone.
I reach for the handle, and that's when the first shot comes through the window.
The bullet punches through the glass, missing my head by maybe three inches. I hit the floor on pure instinct, rolling behind the couch as more shots follow. Professional suppressed rifles, not handguns. The shooters know what they're doing.
Snipers in the building across the street. This isn't a break-in. This is an execution.
My phone buzzes against my hip. Another text message. Same unknown number.
They're moving. Get out NOW. - MK
The urgency in that simple message sends ice water through my veins. If Mikhail is watching me closely enough to know I'm at my door right now, then his warnings mean I should turn around and walk away right now.
But before I’m able to do any move, my bedroom door explodes inward.
Four men in tactical gear pour through the opening like they're conducting a federal raid. Except federal agents don't wear ski masks and move with the kind of silent precision that screams military contractors. These are professionals. The kind who arein charge of making people disappear without leaving evidence behind.
Harrison's cleanup crew.
This confirms to me that Mikhail was right.. Deputy Director Harrison isn't just dirty—he's actively trying to kill me. The frame job, the witness leak, and being set up to take the fall, all true.
It also means I'm about to die in my own apartment unless I do something very stupid or very brave.
Hopefully both.
I pop up from behind the couch and put two rounds center mass into the first guy through the door. He goes down hard, but his partners are already moving, spreading out to flank me. These aren't amateurs who panic when the shooting starts. They're adapting, communicating with hand signals, working as a unit.
I'm outgunned and surrounded. Time to get creative.
I sprint toward the kitchen, using furniture as cover while bullets tear chunks out of my walls. My Ghost wall explodes in a shower of paper and photographs as suppressed rounds punch through everything I've spent two years building.
The kitchen island provides temporary cover, but it won't hold for long. These guys have superior firepower and betterpositioning. In about thirty seconds, they're going to circle around and finish this.
That's when the lights go out.
Every bulb in the apartment dies simultaneously, plunging us into darkness so complete I can't see my own hand in front of my face. The only illumination comes from the muzzle flashes when the contractors keep shooting at where they think I am.
Someone just cut the power to the whole building.
Then I hear it. A sound like death moving through shadows. Barely audible impacts, brief choking noises, and the soft thud of bodies hitting the floor. Someone's in here with us. Someone who moves like a ghost and kills like a professional.
He came for me.
