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Lyon was ready.
But just as the guard reached for Lyon’s ankles, footsteps sounded outside the door — and not the slow and steady sound of his captors shuffling back and forth outside the room that was his prison.
These were the footsteps of more than one man.
And they were running.
“Chto eto za khren’?” Chuckles said to Psycho, who was already turning to the door.
What the fuck is that?
Gunfire rang through the building.
Adrenaline surged through Lyon’s body as he realized what was happening: they’d come for him.
His men had come for him.
More gunfire sounded outside his room, followed by the sounds of men shouting in Russian.
Chuckles rushed to the door, a look of alarm on his fleshy face, the only expression Lyon had ever seen there.
Lyon fought against a surge of frustration at the binds still restraining his feet. There was no help for it. He could either wait here like a sitting duck and hope his captors didn’t put a bullet in his brain when they realized they were under assault, or he could make the best of the situation and work with what he had.
It was an easy choice. He didn’t do sitting duck.
He used his body weight to rock the chair. It teetered for what felt like forever before starting the long fall backwards.
Lyon lifted his head on the way down, wary of being knocked unconscious by the fall to the concrete floor. It still hurt, the impact jarring his battered body, agony tearing through his dislocated shoulder, but it was a vague notion, a curiosity in the back of his mind.
The men hadn’t been watching him, their attention focused on the gunfire growing louder and closer to the room.
But they noticed him now.
The third guard rushed over to deal with him while Psycho and Chuckles unholstered their weapons and flanked the door.
Lyon moved fast, using his freed hands to slide the zip ties around his ankles off the chair legs. He got to his feet just as the guard reached him, his hand on his weapon.
He was too late. Lyon drove the screw into his neck and pulled, felt the rending of flesh as the steel tip dragged down the length of the man’s throat.
The blood was a scarlet fountain, deep red and spurting onto Lyon and across the concrete floor while the guard clutched at his neck, his eyes wide with shock, the gun slipping to the floor.
Lyon bent to pick it up and aimed at the two men standing by the door, their eyes confused by the turn of events, their attention split between the chaos clearly erupting beyond the door and the fact that Lyon was now free and armed with one of their weapons.
Their confusion was brief, but it was all the time he needed. He raised the weapon in his hand and fired at Psycho, who hadn’t yet managed to aim his own weapon at Lyon.
The bullets hit him in the chest, and he slid to the ground.
Chuckles had gotten further — his weapon up and trained on Lyon — when Lyon fired.
The bullet hit him between the eyes, but not before he got off a shot of his own. Lyon felt the sting of it in his good shoulder and charged for the door, weapon raised.
He stood against the wall next to it, listening.
It wasn’t much help. There were people running and shouting, more gunshots, but it was impossible to determine what was going on beyond the door.
And it didn’t matter. He was free. He had a gun.
He would shoot his way out alone if necessary.
