The man didn't just scream; he howled, a guttural, animal sound that vibrated through the floorboards and into my very bones.
I didn't wait for him to recover. As he recoiled from the blade I'd driven into his shoulder, I scrambled out from the knee hole of the desk, my heels skidding on the scattered remains of the crystal decanter. The red emergency lights pulsed like a failing heart, casting long, distorted shadows across the room that made every piece of furniture look like a lunging attacker.
"Louisa, move!"
Keon's voice was a whip crack in the dark. I didn't see him move, but I heard the rhythmic, muffled thud thud thud of his silenced weapon. Two more men in tactical gear, caught in the doorway of the study, crumpled into heaps of dark fabric and expensive hardware.
The man I had stabbed lunged for my ankle, his fingers clawing at the emerald silk of my trousers. I didn't think; I kicked, my heel connecting with his jaw with a sickening crunch. He slumped back, gasping, but his hand was already reaching for the sidearm holstered at his hip.
He was going to kill me.
Before he could draw, a shadow loomed over us. Keon stood there, his profile sharp and terrifying in the crimson light. He didn't hesitate. He stepped over me, his boot pinning the man's wounded arm to the floor, and leveled his gun at the center of the attacker's mask.
"Wait!" I gasped, my voice thin and raw. "He's down, Keon! He's-"
Thwip.
The sound was tiny, almost polite, but the result was final. The man beneath Keon's boot went still. My heart stopped for a beat, the cold reality of what I was witnessing sinking in. This wasn't a boardroom negotiation. There were no second chances here.
"He was a threat," Keon said, his voice devoid of any tremor. He reached down, grabbing my arm and hauling me to my feet with a strength that felt like iron. "In this world, Louisa, you don't leave threats behind you. You erase them."
He didn't check to see if I was shaking. He didn't offer a hug or a lie about how everything would be okay. He grabbed a tactical vest from a hidden wall panel and threw it over my head, cinching the straps so tight it bruised my ribs.
"Stay behind me," he commanded, checking the magazine of his handgun. "They've bypassed the main elevator. That means they have an inside man in the building's security. We're taking the service stairs to the roof."
"The roof?" I tripped over a piece of broken marble, my lungs burning. "Keon, there are more of them out there!"
"Exactly," he said, pausing at the door to the study. He turned back to look at me, his eyes glowing like silver coins in the red haze. "They expect us to hide. They expect us to wait for the police. But the police are twenty minutes away, and Julian Vane's men move in five. We're going to give them the one thing they don't expect: a target that moves."
He shoved a small, encrypted radio into my hand. "If we get separated, you follow the blue lights on the floor. They lead to the helipad. Don't stop for anything. Not for them, and not for me."
We burst into the hallway. The penthouse was a graveyard of broken glass and expensive art. As we ran, another door exploded to our left. Two more attackers emerged, their laser sights dancing across the walls like blood red fireflies.
Keon moved with a lethal, terrifying grace. He pushed me into an alcove and stepped into the line of fire, his weapon barking in a steady, rhythmic cadence. He wasn't just defending; he was hunting. Every movement was calculated, every shot find its mark with the cold precision of an accountant balancing a ledger.
"Go!" he roared, waving me toward the stairwell door.
I ran. My lungs felt like they were filled with broken glass, and the weight of the tactical vest pulled at my shoulders, but I didn't look back. I hit the heavy steel door of the stairwell just as a bullet sparked off the frame next to my ear.
I scrambled up the concrete steps, the silence of the stairwell even more terrifying than the gunfire. Every shadow looked like a man with a gun. Every echo of my own footsteps sounded like a pursuit.
I reached the top landing, the air growing colder as I neared the roof. I pushed the final door open and was met with a wall of wind and the roar of a helicopter's rotors.
The Manhattan skyline was a sea of light, but the roof was a stage for a nightmare.
Standing by the idling helicopter was the one person I thought I'd never see again.
"Ethan?"
He was standing there, his suit jacket flapping in the wind, a gun held in his trembling hands. Beside him stood the man with the jagged scar Marcus Thorne the mercenary from the files.
"I'm sorry, Lou," Ethan sobbed, the wind tearing the words from his mouth. "They said they'd kill me if I didn't help. They said Keon was the one who set you up! They said he was just using you!"
"He is using me, Ethan!" I shouted, the wind whipping my hair across my face. "But he's not the one standing there with a man who murders for a living! Put the gun down!"
"I can't!" Ethan shrieked. "Thorne has my mother, Lou! He'll kill her if I don't give them the drive!"
Behind me, the stairwell door slammed open. Keon emerged, his suit torn, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead. He didn't look at Ethan. He looked straight at Thorne.
"You're late, Marcus," Keon said, his voice carrying clearly over the roar of the engines. "The data is already being uploaded to a dead-man's switch. If I die, Vane's entire network goes live on the internet in ten minutes."
Thorne smiled, a slow, ugly movement of his lips. "Then I suppose I'll just have to take the girl instead. Vane thinks she's worth more than the data."
Thorne nudged Ethan with the barrel of his rifle. "Kill him, kid. Now. Or you'll never see your mother again."
Ethan's eyes met mine. For a second, I saw the man I had loved. Then, I saw the coward who was about to kill the only man who had ever given me a choice.
I didn't wait for Ethan to decide. I reached into the pocket of my vest and pulled out the weighted knife.
"You always were a bad liar, Ethan," I whispered.
I lunged.
