That sound tears through me.
The operative’s knife flashes again.
I catch his arm, but the blade slices across my forearm, hot and deep.
Pain bites.
I ignore it.
He drives a knee toward my ribs.
I absorb it and slam my forehead into his mask.
Crack.
Not enough.
He reaches for something at his belt.
Small.
Metal.
Needle injector.
And his mask turns—not toward me.
Toward Hannah.
No.
Rage takes over.
I drive him backward into the boiler room wall, once, twice, three times, until pipes rattle and steam hisses from somewhere overhead.
“Clay!” Russ snaps. “End it!”
Gladly.
The operative lifts the injector again.
I catch his wrist and force it back.
Into the seam beneath his own armor.
His body jerks.
Once.
Hard.
The mask tilts toward me.
For the first time, he makes a sound.
Not pain.
Shock.
