“I’m on it!” Real’s weapon thundered, mowing down two who tried to flank.
Azrael materialized and, back-to-back with Real, cleaved through perps.
Boston and Freedom were there. All of the young assassins were fucking good. The young men may have been thrown into this way of life without a choice, but they owned it.
Rip ghosted through the chaos, twin blades flashing when gunfire wasn’t fast enough. Always hovering, never far from Boston. Men screamed and went silent, blood slicking the floor.
Stone fired again, muzzle flash lighting the grit on his face—until pain detonated in his shoulder.
The impact spun him back against the toppled table, air ripped from his lungs. His weapon slipped from numb fingers.
“Damn it—” His voice was ragged, shock flooding him.
Hot blood poured down his arm, soaking through his vest and shirt. He clamped his hand against his upper shoulder, but the pressure only made white fire explode behind his eyes.
Azrael noticed first and launched across the distance, shoving his knives into one perp and then another as he worked his way to where Stone had fallen.
“Shit!” Real’s voice cracked through the comms as he leaped after Azrael.
Boots scraped across hardwood—Real dropping to one knee beside him. Rough hands grabbed Stone under the arm, steadying him.
“Rip,” Real growled. “Come help me!”
“I’m here!” Rip roared at his side in seconds.
Rounds chewed the walls around them, sparks flaring. Stone tried to push himself upright, teeth clenched against the dizzying wave of pain. He’d taken hits before, but this one was deep—upper shoulder, through-and-through above the vest line. His fingers came away slick and hot.
“Stay with me,” Real snapped, yanking Stone’s arm across his shoulders. “Don’t you fuckin’ fade on me.”
“I’m not—” Stone started, but the words came out with a gasp.
Viper and Winter stormed in with Crow and Rebel close behind. Fierce and Freedom moved in to flank, weapons firing.
Through the haze of pain, Stone caught the roar of Genesis tearing into the room. They didn’t take fucking numbers. They didn’t come in stealthily—they came in with a force that Stone himself would describe as loud, savage, brutal.
Out for blood.
A flash of white light tore through the gloom—Boston’s grenade sending Micky’s men scrambling, their shouts rising above the gunfire.
“Move!” Viper barked.
Rip swung in, helping Real as together, they carried Stone toward the exit. Muzzle flashes burned behind them, shadows twisting, but Genesis’s fury held the tide back.
Every step was fire in Stone’s veins, vision blurring at the edges. He could hear the pulse pounding in his ears louder than the gunfire.
They left the room, the roar fading into muffled chaos. Real and Rip half-carried, half-dragged him through the corridor.
Stone’s knees buckled once, nearly sending them all crashing, but Real snarled, “Not today, brother. You’re not going out in this fuckin’ hole.”
The world tilted, lights flashing faintly from deeper in the compound. Voices shouted—Genesis pushing forward, Mickey’s men breaking. Stone’s head sagged against Real’s shoulder, the dark pressing tighter until it swallowed him whole.
When light came again, it wasn’t muzzle flash or grenades—it was sterile and steady, glaring down from a hospital ceiling. The sharp tang of antiseptic burned his nose.
“Gunshot to the upper shoulder,” a clipped voice snapped. “Get this vest off and prep for surgery.”
Dave’s face swam into focus above him. Jaw tight, steel-gray eyes raw with worry, his hand clamped around his like an anchor.
Stone tried to smile, but his lips barely moved.
