The rear guard stops. He turns his head to inspect a fallen sconce on the carpet. I blend into the darkness. The darkness of the hallway wraps around me. I do not make a sound. My bare feet glide over the sections of carpet I know are silent.
I close the distance in three long strides.
My left hand clamps over the rear guard's mouth. My arm wraps around his neck, pulling his head back sharply to expose his throat. Before he can even register the ambush, I drive the six-inch combat knife upward. Through the soft tissue beneath his jaw. Up into his brain stem. He’s dead before he hits the floor.
I spasms violently. Blood erupts over my hand. Warm, wet, metallic.
I drag his dying body backward into room 1402. I lower him to the floor without a single thud. I rip the knife free.
The scent of fresh copper fills the air. Real blood. Not the phantom copper of my father's alley. This is reality. The violence grounds me. The panic that paralyzed me in the bathroom earlier is gone. There is no borrowed trauma here. There is only the immediate, desperate need to protect my woman.
I wipe the blade on the dead man's tactical vest. One down. Three left.
The lead man stops. He holds up a fist. The formation halts.
"Where's Marco?" he hisses.
The two remaining men turn around. They see the empty hallway. They see the smear of blood on the rotting wallpaper where I dragged their comrade.
"Fuck," one of them breathes. He raises his shotgun. "He's here."
"Light it up!" the leader barks.
They open fire. Suppressed weapons cough violently. Thwip-thwip-thwip. Rounds tear through the drywall. They shred the decaying velvet drapes. They annihilate the antique mirrors lining the walls. Wood splinters explode into the air. Plaster rains down in white clouds.
I dive behind the reinforced concrete pillar inside room 1402. Bullets chew into the stone mere inches from my face. Stonefragments pepper my bare chest. Small, stinging cuts. I ignore the pain. Pain is data. Data means I am alive. Alive means Gemma is protected.
The air fills with the acrid stench of cordite. Real cordite. It stings my eyes and burns the back of my throat. The scent threatens to drag me backward. The memory of Matteo’s broken voice on the phone tries to drag me backward to that rainy alley, to the helpless sixteen-year-old boy who couldn't stop the slaughter of his family.
Focus. I am not sixteen. I am thirty-six.
I am the guard. I am the executioner. My family is dead, but the woman breathing under the bed in the next room is alive. She is my responsibility, and I will burn Chicago to its foundations before I let a Bellanti bullet touch her.
I lean out from behind the concrete pillar. I raise the Glock 19. I do not aim. I point and shoot. Muscle memory born from thousands of hours on the compound training range.
Pop. Pop.
Double tap. Headshot.
The man with the shotgun jerks backward. Blood sprays from his chest. He drops the weapon and collapses against the wall, sliding down leaving a crimson streak.
Two down. Two left.
"He's in the side room!" the leader screams. He unleashes a full burst from his M4. The wall disintegrates. I hit the floor, rolling over the shattered debris. Dust chokes the air, turning the hallway into a blinding fog. Visibility drops to zero.
This is my advantage. They rely on their eyes. I rely on the layout.
I crawl forward, keeping my body flat against the floorboards. I navigate the debris field by touch. I reach the threshold of the door. The leader and the third man are advancing blindly, firing in wide arcs. They are panicked. Panic makes men predictable.
I slide the Glock across the floor into the hallway. I do not need it for this. The quarters are too close.
I explode upward from the darkness. I launch my frame directly at the third man. I slam into him with the full force of my sprint. The impact knocks the submachine gun from his hands. We crash into the opposite wall. The drywall bows under our combined weight. I do not give him a chance to recover. I drive my knee into his groin. He doubles over with a wet gasp. I grab the back of his tactical helmet and smash his face into the oak doorframe. Bone crunches. Cartilage shatters. He drops to the floor like a sack of dead weight.
Three down. One left.
The leader spins around. His night vision goggles are useless in the plaster dust. He swings the barrel of the M4 toward me. He is fast. Faster than the others.
He pulls the trigger.
