KAEL

The room felt smaller with four armed men and a table full of signed documents that had just stripped me of everything.

Dante Moretti stood, collecting the papers with meticulous care. "Someone take these to Mr. Roman," he said to one of the guards, a younger man with a spider tattoo crawling up his neck.

Spider-tattoo nodded, took the stack of documents, and left through the reinforced door.

That left me with Dante and three guards. All armed. All watching me like I was a caged animal that might suddenly remember it had claws.

Good instincts.

Dante studied me for a moment, his cold eyes assessing. "You really love her, don’t you?"

I didn’t answer.

"Shame." He moved toward the door. "Love makes men weak. Makes them do stupid things." He paused at the threshold. "Like signing away an empire."

He left, the door clanging shut behind him.

Three guards remained. One by the door, rifle across his chest. Two flanking me, weapons held casually but ready.

They thought I was neutered. Disarmed. Helpless.

They were about to learn otherwise.

I sat in the chair, hands still zip-tied, and waited.

Externally: calm. Breathing steady. No visible tension.

Internally: cataloging everything. The guard by the door favored his right side, old injury, probably. The one to my left had his finger off the trigger, trained, but not combat-ready in this moment. The one to my right was checking his phone, distracted.

Three targets. Multiple weapons within reach if I moved fast enough. Door was reinforced but not impenetrable. Window to my left, five stories up, but there were fire escapes.

Options. Always options.

I just needed an opening.

The explosion came seven minutes later.

Distant at first, a muffled whump from somewhere below. Then closer. Then the unmistakable rattle of automatic gunfire.

All three guards tensed.

The one by the door grabbed his radio. "What the fuck was that?"

Static. Then chaos.

"—UNDER ATTACK—"

"—MULTIPLE HOSTILES, THIRD FLOOR—"

"—NEED BACKUP NOW—"

More gunfire. Closer. The building shook with another explosion.

My team.

Right on schedule.

The guard by the door looked at his companions. "You two stay with him. I’m going to—"

"I’ll go too," the one who’d been checking his phone said, already moving. "We need everyone— "

They both rushed out, leaving just one guard.

The one to my left, who’d kept his finger off the trigger.

Fatal mistake.

I moved.

Fast.

Years of combat training compressed into two seconds of explosive violence.

I lunged from the chair, hands still bound but functional. Grabbed the barrel of his rifle before he could bring it to bear. Twisted it upward as his finger found the trigger, rounds spraying into the ceiling, deafening in the enclosed space.

Headbutted him. Felt his nose crunch.

He staggered back. I yanked the rifle from his grip, reversed it, drove the stock into his throat. He went down choking.

The door burst open. The phone-checker guard returning, weapon raised,

I shot him. Three-round burst center mass. He dropped.

The door guard appeared behind him, already firing,

I dove left, behind the table. Rounds punched through metal, sparking. Rolled, came up on one knee, returned fire.

Caught him in the shoulder. He spun. Second burst took him in the chest.

He fell.

The guard I’d throat-struck was trying to get up, reaching for a sidearm,

I put a bullet between his eyes.

Silence.

Four bodies. Maybe sixty seconds elapsed.

I stood, breathing controlled despite the adrenaline spike, and searched the bodies. Found a combat knife, cut my zip-ties. Grabbed spare magazines, a radio, a sidearm for backup.

The radio crackled: "—need reinforcements on four—"

"—rooftop team, what’s your status—"

"—they’re everywhere, how did they get inside—"

I switched to my team’s encrypted frequency. "Ash, sitrep."

"Kael!" Relief flooded her voice. "Third floor secured. Moving to fourth. You okay?"

"I’m clear. Going for Aria. She’s on the roof with Andrew."

"Wait for backup—"

"No time." I moved to the door, checking the hallway. Clear for now. "Keep the ground floors clear. Cut off any retreat. But I’m going alone."

"Kael—"

"That’s an order."

I switched off the radio before she could argue.

Andrew was mine.

The stairwell was a vertical battlefield.

I encountered two guards on the third-floor landing. Took them down before they could raise their weapons, muscle memory from a thousand training drills making the movements automatic.

Fourth floor: one guard, back turned, shouting into his radio. Single shot to the base of the skull.

Fifth floor: three guards holding position, trying to coordinate a defense.

I threw a flashbang I’d taken from a dead guard. The explosion and white-hot light sent them reeling. I moved through the smoke, rifle up, firing controlled bursts.

Three more bodies.

The reaper was back again.

And I remembered exactly how to kill.

Up the final flight of stairs. The roof access, a heavy metal door with a deadbolt visible through the small window.

Locked.

I didn’t bother with finesse. Put three rounds through the lock mechanism. Kicked the door. It flew open, hinges screaming.

Cold night air hit my face.

And I saw her.

Aria.

Center of the rooftop, bomb vest clearly visible even from here, her face a mess of bruises and tears and terror.

Behind her: Andrew. Using her as a human shield, gun pressed to her temple, detonator in his other hand.

And to the right: Spider-tattoo guard. The one who’d taken the signed documents. He was just turning, papers still clutched in one hand, reaching for his weapon with the other.

I didn’t hesitate.

Raised my rifle. Acquired target. Exhaled.

Crack.

The bullet took Spider-tattoo between the eyes. His head snapped back, blood and brain matter spraying across the rooftop. The papers flew from his hand, which Andrew quickly grabbed before it scattered into the wind.

He dropped like a puppet with cut strings.

Now it was just us.

Me. Andrew. And Aria trapped between us.

"KAEL!" Aria’s scream was raw, desperate.

Andrew’s gun pressed harder against her temple, hard enough to leave an indentation in her skin.

"Stay right there!" he shouted, his composure finally cracking. "Don’t you fucking move!"

I stood in the doorway, rifle trained on him, finger on the trigger. Calculating angles. Trajectories. The distance between his head and Aria’s. The bomb on her chest. The detonator in his hand.

Looking for a shot.

Any shot.

"You can’t make it," Andrew said, reading my intention. His thumb hovered over the detonator button. "You shoot me, I press this button reflexively. Dead man’s switch, remember? She dies either way."

He was right.

Goddamn him, he was right.