“Viktor!” Sebastian's voice, muffled and distant. His hands on my face. “Viktor, are you hit? Talk to me!”
“Am fine. We need to move. Now.”
I shoved him off me and stood. Everything hurt. My shoulder was on fire. Something wet ran down my back. Blood. A lot of it.
Not important. Moving was important.
I grabbed Sebastian's arm and we ran down the side street, boots splashing through puddles, rain hammering down cold and relentless. Behind us, voices shouted. Coordinating. Hunting.
They wanted Sebastian alive or dead. Either way, they weren't stopping.
I pulled him into a recessed doorway. Loading dock for some warehouse. Locked. But it gave us cover. Concealment. Seconds to breathe.
“How bad?” Sebastian asked, looking at my shoulder.
Blood soaked through my jacket, running down my arm. Dark. Too much. “Flesh wound. I have had worse.”
“You're bleeding a lot for a flesh wound.”
“Is manageable. Be quiet now.”
Footsteps approached. Three sets. Tactical spacing. Professional movement. These weren't street thugs. These were trained operators.
I counted heartbeats. Listened to their rhythm. Waited until they were close enough.
Then I stepped out and engaged.
Close quarters. No room for mistakes. No time for hesitation. The first man turned, weapon rising. I shot him twice. Double tap. Center mass. He dropped.
The second got a shot off. Bullet grazed my ribs, tearing through fabric and skin. White-hot pain. I stumbled but kept firing. Put him down with a headshot. Red mist. He fell.
The third was faster. Smarter. His round caught my left arm. Pain exploded. My weapon dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers.
He closed the distance, knife flashing in his hand. Military blade. Serrated edge. He came in low, going for my gut.
Sebastian shot him. Three rounds. Chest. Throat. Face. The man's head snapped back, and he went down in a heap.
Silence.
Just rain and our breathing and my blood dripping onto pavement.
I looked at Sebastian. His hands were steady on Marcus's Glock. His face was pale but composed. No shock. No hesitation. No surprise at taking a life.
This wasn't his first time pulling a trigger. Wasn't his first time watching someone die by his hand.
Who the fuck was this prince?
“Come,” I said, retrieving my weapon with my good hand. “More will come. Always more.”
We moved through the streets, staying to alleys and side roads. Keeping away from main thoroughfares where cameras would track us. Where more attackers might be waiting.
I was leaving a blood trail. Couldn't help it. The shoulder wound was deeper than I'd thought. The ribs were bad. The arm was worse. My left side was soaked red.
“Viktor, you need medical attention. Now.”
“Later. First we get somewhere safe. Somewhere they cannot follow.”
“You're barely walking.”
