Garage.
He descended the stairs Glock up, favoring his right side just enough to keep the pull in his thigh from slowing him. His broken hand throbbed with every heartbeat. His grip held. Pain was just information. He’d learned that at nineteen, and he’d never had more reason to believe it.
The interior door to the garage was ajar. Beyond it, the garage was dark. The only light bled in from outside, a thin gray line beneath the exterior door.
A sound—short, choked, furious. The sound of someone fighting with everything they have, but it isn’t enough.
Jen.
He eased through the door. Let his eyes adjust. The garage took shape in shades of gray and black—his Volvo against the far wall, workbench to the right, tool racks along the back, shelving units creating narrow channels between the vehicle and the walls.
Movement.
Akilov had her near the exterior door, one hand fisted in her hair, the other holding a weapon at his side, angling for extraction, not a fight.
Professional to the end.
Jen was fighting him. Her hands clawed at the fist in her hair, her feet scrambling for purchase on the concrete. Blood on her face—a cut across her cheek, a dark smear at her hairline. Her knuckles were raw and torn. One eye was swelling shut, the skin already darkening.
She wasn’t limp or quiet. She clawed and kicked with everything she had, and Akilov absorbed it the way a man absorbs weather—an inconvenience, not a threat.
The sight of her, bloody, fighting, refusing to break, hit him in a place that belonged to her now.
Below rage. Below fear.
Where the man and the weapon were the same thing.
And neither would survive her loss.
He raised the Glock.
The angle was wrong. Jen was between them—not directly, but close enough that the margin for error was a margin he couldn’t afford. Akilov had positioned himself behind her left shoulder. Deliberate. Using her without putting a gun to her head. Smarter than a hostage play. Harder to solve.
Wyatt shifted right, trying to open the angle.
Akilov pivoted—fast and fluid as the geometry changed. He pulled Jen in tighter, positioning her between them, heading diagonally toward the bay door. His weapon came up over her shoulder, aimed at the dark where Wyatt stood.
“Stop.” Akilov’s voice was flat. His one good eye tracked the shadows. “I’ll kill her before you clear me.”
Wyatt inched along the wall, using the shelving unit for concealment, working the angle. Pain pulsed through his broken hand. His breathing was even but his heart was trying to tear its way out of his chest.
Akilov fired.
The shot was enormous in the enclosed space—a concussive blast that rang off concrete and steel. The round punched through the shelving unit six inches above Wyatt’s head. Metal pinged. Glass rained down.
Wyatt dropped low and came up with a clear line.
For a split second, he had it.
Akilov’s head and shoulder, exposed past Jen’s left side. A shot he’d made a thousand times. A shot he could make with a broken hand, blood in his eyes, the world ending around him.
A boot scraped concrete behind him. Too close.
Third man. Should have counted on it.
Wyatt fired as the shelving unit behind him exploded inward and a body hit him hard.
His shots went wide, muzzle flash strobing off concrete. Akilov twisted, dragging Jen with him.
