Page 120 of Fatal Pattern

Blade lifted his chin at Barclay. “You killed them. It was you who stabbed Nikos and Ji-Yeon while Tori watched. Then you pinned it on her brother. You started all this.”

“The Crew murders weren’t the beginning,” Barclay said, shaking his head. “No, this is centuries of groundwork. Building networks. Placing assets. Destroying others.”

Then he smiled.

Wells tilted his head, almost sympathetic. “We could make Kiara’s file-access problem disappear. Logs can be edited. Cooperate, Blade. She walks. Refuse, and she goes down for federal computer fraud.”

Blade’s jaw locked. “Don’t you threaten her.”

His gaze flicked to Tori. She wasn’t looking at him. Her focus remained locked on Stryker, something fierce and protective burning in her dark eyes.

She would die for that man. He knew it the way he knew his own heartbeat.

He caught her eye for a fraction of a second.

When I move, you get Stryker. Go.

He saw understanding in the slight widening of her eyes, the almost imperceptible nod.

His Glock was useless at this range. A shot would go wide or hit Stryker.

He moved.

Barclay never saw it coming. Blade drove a shoulder into his sternum and slammed him into the concrete wall. Both weapons hit the floor. Wells spun, trigger finger moving, but Barclay was in the way.

One heartbeat. That’s all it bought.

It was enough.

Blade’s fist found Barclay’s jaw. The chief’s head snapped back. Blade didn’t wait to see how it landed. Jab to the body, cross to the chin, the combinations that had dropped men half Barclay’s age. The old chief was thick through the chest and shoulders, but he was eating every shot, his guard coming up too slow, legs going uncertain beneath him.

Blade could feel it. Another thirty seconds, and Barclay would fold.

Barclay drove a desperate fist into Blade’s wounded side.

The beach knife wound tore open. Pain detonated through his side, and his hands dropped for one involuntary second. It was enough for Barclay to clinch, grabbing Blade’s collar, using his weight to slow the assault.

Across the room Tori had Stryker’s wheelchair moving, one hand on the grip, Glock up in the other. She muscled him behind a concrete pillar and planted herself in front of him.

Wells opened fire toward her position, shots cracking off the concrete above her head. Tori dropped below it, returned two shots from the low position, then moved again.

Blade broke the clinch with an elbow to Barclay’s forearm, stepped back, reset. Barclay’s left eye had swollen nearly shut. His lip was split, breathing labored. He was done and he knew it.

The rifle butt caught Blade behind the knee.

The leg buckled. He took the fall on his shoulder, rolled, and a boot came down where his face had been. Big Red stood over him, rifle barrel dropping toward his skull. Point blank. The concrete was cold against Blade’s back.

He could see his Glock on the floor. Ten feet away. It might as well have been a mile.

Barclay wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Finish it.”

The shot came from behind the pillar.

Big Red’s chest opened up. He dropped straight down, rifle clattering off Blade’s leg.

Blade rolled away from the body as Wells swung his weapon toward Tori’s position, firing fast, rounds popping off concrete.

Blade was already going for his gun. His knee screamed where he’d landed, the leg threatening to give again with every stride.