“Four,” I corrected, my arrow already in flight.
The mercenary on the far left didn't even have time to register surprise. The obsidian tip punched through his throat, severing his carotid. Blood sprayed in an arterial arc as he tumbled over the ornate railing, still screaming through a ruined windpipe.
These weren't amateurs. These were professionals. Ex-military. Maybe Blackwater. Maybe worse. They moved with tactical precision, covering each other's angles, suppressing our position with disciplined fire.
Viktor was already moving. Two shots from his position. Two bodies dropped from the balcony. Professional. Clean. Beautiful in its brutal efficiency. But the remaining mercenaries adapted immediately, pulling back into cover, repositioning.
Smart. Dangerous.
I vaulted over a toppled table, came up behind a stone column. Drew. Aimed. Released.
My arrow caught a mercenary through the shoulder as he tried to flank Dom's position. Not a killing shot. He went down hard but was already crawling for cover, one arm useless, the other reaching for his sidearm.
Tough bastard.
“Twelve more incoming!” Dmitri's voice. “Basement level. They're flooding in!”
Fuck. Marcel had built this place like a fortress. Multiple entry points. Reinforcements staged throughout.
Movement to my left. A mercenary charging from behind a toppled statue, combat knife reversed in his grip. Big. Six-four at least. Built like he bench-pressed motorcycles for fun. Tattoos crawling up his neck. Serbian or Croatian, judging by the ink patterns.
His first swing came fast. Professional technique. I ducked, felt the blade whistle past my ear close enough to shave hair. He transitioned immediately into a backhand slash. No hesitation. No wasted movement.
I caught his wrist on the return. Twisted hard. But he was stronger than he looked. Absorbed the force, used my momentum against me. Drove his knee toward my ribs.
I barely got my elbow down in time. The impact still sent lightning through my arm. Numbed everything from shoulder to fingertips.
He grinned. Yellowed teeth. Broken nose that had healed crooked. The kind of face that had seen a thousand fights and won most of them.
“Little prince,” he said in accented English. “Marcel pays extra for your head.”
“He'll have to settle for my ass,” I shot back. Drove my boot into his knee.
He shifted. Took the impact on his thigh instead. Barely stumbled. Grabbed my jacket. Threw me like I weighed nothing.
I hit a marble pillar hard enough to crack it. Or maybe that was my ribs. Couldn't tell. Pain exploded through my back. Knocked the wind out of me.
He charged. Knife leading.
I rolled. His blade sparked off marble where my head had been. Chips of stone flew. One caught my cheek, drawing blood.
My hand found an arrow in my quiver. Not enough time to nock it. I came up swinging it like a short spear.
The obsidian tip caught him across the face. Split his eyebrow. Blood sheeted down into his eye.
He roared. Backhanded me across the jaw.
Stars exploded. The world tilted. I tasted copper.
But I'd been hit harder. By life. By grief. By eighteen years of guilt that weighed more than any fist.
I drove the arrow toward his throat.
He caught my wrist. Twisted. The arrow clattered away.
We grappled. Trading blows. His fists like hammers. My ribs screaming. My lungs burning. Every breath tasting like blood and failure.
This was what real fighting looked like. Not the choreographed dances from training. Not the easy victories against untrained thugs.This was two people trying to kill each other with everything they had.
