Page 121 of Victorious

EON.

Three years of running, and they’d finally caught up.

His head was pounding as he searched the lot. Where was Sydney? Not here, he thought, which was cold comfort, because she was out there, somewhere, and—

As if on cue, a gun went off. Not a heavy blast, but the ping of metal striking metal, of shots fired, shots missed. His heart hammered in his aching chest, and he started forward, toward the sound, and the agents standing in his way.

One wielded a baton, the tip crackling with energy.

The other held a gun.

The two agents fell on him as one. Mitch dodged the first attack, but the second landed, pain lighting up his nerves, seizing his muscles as the baton slammed into his side. He turned, using momentum to knock the first agent down and grab the second, one hand clutching the bottom of their helmet, the other catching the muzzle of the gun. Mitch twisted both, and the agent lost their balance and their weapon. He turned, leveling the stolen gun on the first agent, his finger already on the trigger.

All he had to do was fire.

But despite the stints he’d served in prison, despite his appearance, his size, despite what everyone assumed, Mitchell Turner had never killed anyone.

Maybe that was why he hesitated.

Not for long—the time it took to suck in a breath, to steady his aim—but it was long enough for a third agent, the one he couldn’t see, to bring something—the shotgun barrel, if Mitch had to guess—down onto his outstretched arm.

The blow sent a bolt of pain up through his elbow and down through his wrist. Against his will, his hand loosened, and he dropped the gun.

And then they were on him.

The baton slammed into his back and Mitch gasped, and stumbled, body seizing as the current shot across his nerves. A boot caught him in the back of the leg, and he fell to one knee. But he didn’t go down. He wouldn’t go down. Not when Syd was out there somewhere. Not when she needed him.

His arms were forced behind his back, but his attention was on the space directly in front of him. The place where he could feel another person, even if he couldn’t see them.

He spit out a mouthful of blood and it landed on a pair of boots, visible for just an instant before they vanished, swallowed up by the EO’s camouflaging power.

“Coward,” muttered Mitch through gritted teeth. “The least you can do is face me.”

He hadn’t expected the EO to oblige. But they did. A man materialized, stepping out of nothing, out of empty night and into being. He was dressed just like the EON agents, minus the helmet, the visor. Mitch recognized him instantly.

The man from the cabin.

Noah.

“Hello again, Jack,” he said, laying emphasis on the fake name Mitch had used in Herald. Standing in the front yard, he’d been wearing black sunglasses. Now, Mitch saw why. Without them, his eyes were a swirling mess of color that would have instantly given him away. Not that it mattered now.

Mitch’s body screamed in protest but he didn’t listen, didn’t care. He forced himself up, the agents struggling to hold him as he threw all his strength into pushing upward, back onto his feet, for what little good it did him.

Noah stood there, watching, amusement on his face as Mitch fought, and failed, fought, and managed to throw his attackers off. To force them back.

Noah watched Mitch exhaust himself, then thumbed the safety off, and swung the shotgun up, bringing the barrel to his chest.

“Goodbye, Jack,” he said.

As the cold metal came to rest over his heart, all Mitch could think was that he hadn’t gotten to call Victor. Which meant, no one was coming to help him. To help Syd. He’d had one job, and he’d failed it, failed her. He’d tried so hard, but she was right. In the end, he couldn’t keep her safe.

Mitch met the EO’s unnerving gaze, determined to meet death with open eyes.

But Noah didn’t pull the trigger.

He was about to, but then he cocked his head, as if listening to someone. His expression flattened and he answered, “Understood.” He lowered the shotgun, but before Mitch’s pain-racked mind could register relief, the EO drew another, smaller weapon, swung it up, and fired three rounds straight into Mitch’s chest.

The force slammed him backward, pain flooding his body, followed by a cold numbness he didn’t understand until he looked down and saw he wasn’t dying. There was no blood spreading across his front. Instead, three red darts jutted from between his ribs.