Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“One down,” I breathe.
“Five to go,” Punk says. “Four now. Two on the main floor just converged. They're in the southwest corner.”
Heading for the stairs, I pull out my Glock. Each step is calculated, weight on the balls of my feet, testing for creaks before committing.
“Detail just radioed,” Luce warns. “They know something's wrong.”
“How long?”
“Two minutes before they come looking.”
I hit the second floor at a run. The office is straight ahead, light bleeding out from under the door. I can hear voices inside. Multiple.
“Three targets in the office,” Punk confirms. “Your guy plus two.”
This is about to get messy.
I don't slow down. Don't hesitate. I kick the door open and the Glock is already up, already firing.
Two shots. Center mass. The first guard goes down clutching his chest, blood blooming across his white shirt.
The second guard is faster. He's diving for cover behind a desk when my third shot catches him in the shoulder. He hits the ground hard, weapon skittering across cheap linoleum.
And then it's just me and Theo Jarvis.
He's bigger than his photos suggested. Broader. His suit is expensive but badly fitted, straining across his gut. Graying hair slicked back. Scar cutting through his left eyebrow.
And he's not panicking.
That should've been my first warning.
“Mariee,” he says, like we're old friends. Like he's been expecting me. “They said you'd come.”
I adjust my aim, centering on his forehead. “They were right.”
“They also said—” He moves.
Fast. Too fast for a man his size.
My shot goes wide, punching through drywall, and then he's on me. His shoulder drives into my ribs and we slam into the doorframe. Air explodes from my lungs. The Glock falls from my grip, clattering somewhere behind me.
I bring my knee up, aiming for his groin, but he twists and takes it on his thigh. His fist comes around, catching me on the jaw, and white light explodes behind my eyes.
“Ivy!” Luce's voice is sharp in my ear. “Three more hostiles incoming! Thirty seconds!”
Jarvis's hands close around my throat.
I slam my palm into his nose. Cartilage crunches, blood sprays, but his grip doesn't loosen. My vision starts to narrow, black creeping in at the edges.
Training kicks in before thought does. I drive my thumbs into the pressure points behind his ears, brutal and precise, and his hands spasm open.
I drop, gasping, and sweep his legs out from under him. He goes down hard, head bouncing off the floor, but he's already rolling, already coming up.
We collide again. His fist catches my ribs—same spot as before—and something cracks. Pain blooms, sharp and white-hot, but I use the momentum to spin inside his guard. Elbow to his temple. Knee to his solar plexus. He staggers back, finally, and I reach for my knife.
The blade whispers out of its sheath.
His eyes track the movement, widening.
“Wait—”
I throw.
The knife tumbles end over end, a silver blur in the fluorescent light—
And embeds itself in the wall three inches from his head.
“Fuck.” I dive for my gun.
He's on me before my fingers close around the grip. We go down in a tangle, his weight crushing, his hands going for my throat again. I buck, twist, get my knee between us and shove. He flies backward into the desk, scattering papers, a laptop crashing to the floor.
Footsteps. Pounding up the stairs.
“Ten seconds!” Punk sounds frantic.
I don't have ten seconds.
Jarvis charges. I sidestep, grab his arm, use his momentum to slam him face-first into the wall. Once. Twice. Blood smears the peeling paint. His knees buckle but he catches himself on a filing cabinet, spinning with something metallic in his hand.
Brass knuckles.
The first hit takes me across the cheekbone. My head snaps back, stars bursting across my vision. The second catches my shoulder, numbing my entire arm.
I drop low, sweep, and this time he doesn't get up fast enough. I'm on him, straddling his chest, raining down blows. Nose. Jaw. Throat. Each impact sends shockwaves up my arms, pain singing through my cracked ribs, but I don't stop.
Can't stop.
His hands come up, grabbing for my wrists, and we're grappling again, rolling across broken glass and spent shell casings. My back hits something sharp—the desk leg—and I gasp.
He uses the opening.
His fist connects with my ribs again. Same spot. The crack becomes a break and I scream, can't help it, white-hot agony stealing my breath.
“IVY!” Multiple voices now. Luce. Punk. Daniel.
But they're far away. Distant. All I can hear is my own pulse thundering in my ears, my own ragged breathing mixing with Jarvis.
And I remember the knife in my boot.
My hand moves on instinct. The blade slides free just as his fist comes down. I twist, and instead of my face, his knuckles smash into the floor. He roars, pulls back for another strike—
I bury the knife in his throat.
Blood sprays hot across my face, my chest. His eyes go wide, hands flying to his neck, trying to staunch the crimson fountain pulsing between his fingers.