Chapter 22
The gunshots woke her.
Maggie bolted upright in bed, heart already hammering. Was that a gun? Did she hear right? Oh, sweet Lord, was it?
More. “Yeah, gunshots,” she said to herself. They were distant but unmistakable. Sharp cracks echoed through the platform's steel structure.
She threw off the blanket she’d draped over her lap while she stared at the blank wall, scared for Reece and not altogether happy about of being left alone. She lunged for her tablet on the nightstand.
No messages.
Nothing from the Guardian contact. Nothing from Reece.
Just the empty DM window staring back at her.
Another burst of gunfire made her jump to her feet. It was closer this time. Holy crap.
Maggie's breath came faster as she scanned the room, looking for anything she could use to defend herself. The bed. The desk. The small kitchenette in the corner.
The kitchenette. She heard doors being pounded on. The noise was getting closer.
She ran into the kitchenette and yanked the open drawers with trembling hands. Silverware. Dishcloths. Plastic containers.
Bottom cabinet.
Pulling it open, she found cookware. A small pot. A medium saucepan. And there, in the back, was a heavy skillet. Damn, she wished it were the cast-iron version, but it would have to do.
She grabbed it, testing the weight. Solid. Heavy enough to do damage. It would have to be enough.
Maggie moved to the side of the door and pressed her back against the wall, the skillet gripped in both hands like a baseball bat. Her palms were sweating. The bandages on her hands made her grip awkward, but she held on tight.
She forced herself to breathe. To think. To listen.
The corridor outside was quiet for a moment. Just the constant hum of the platform's systems. The vibration under her feet.
Then footsteps. More banging against doors, or doors flying open, she didn’t know which.
Running again. More banging. It was happening fast and getting closer.
Maggie's grip tightened on the skillet. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt.
The footsteps stopped outside her door.
She heard the beep of a badge scanner. Once. Twice. Three times.
Access denied. Access denied. Access denied.
Definitely not Reece.
Then pounding. Fists hammering against the door.
"Fucking whore, where are you!" A man's voice. Desperate. Furious.
Maggie gasped, the sound escaping before she could stop it. She pressed closer to the wall, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to control the terror flooding through her.
The pounding stopped.
For one blessed second, silence.
Then gunshots.
Three rapid shots that punched through the door at lock level. The explosions were deafening in the enclosed corridor. Maggie flinched with each one, her whole body shaking.
The lock mechanism sparked and smoked, the metal twisted and shattered.
Then the man was throwing his shoulder against the door. Once. Twice. The door frame groaned but held.
He switched tactics. Stepping back. Then his foot slammed into the door just below the destroyed lock.
The door bowed inward. The frame splintered. Another kick. The hinges screamed. The door flexed, warping under the assault, the center bending grotesquely while the edges stayed trapped in the frame.
One more kick.
The door flew open, tearing free from the top hinge, hanging at a crazy angle from the bottom.
A man stumbled through. Black hair. Late forties. Wild eyes. Gun in his hand.
Jonah Pike.
Maggie didn't think. She swung the skillet with everything she had.
The pan connected with his head with a sickening crack. Pike's head snapped sideways. His knees buckled. He collapsed to the floor, the gun clattering from his hand.
Maggie didn't wait to see if he stayed down.
Hopping over his sprawled body, she ran, sprinting down the corridor, her bare feet slapping against the metal floor. Behind her, she heard a roar of rage and pain. Pike was getting up.
“Shit, shit, shit!” She pushed harder, lungs burning, legs pumping.
A gunshot cracked behind her.
The bullet whizzed past her head, so close she felt the displacement of air.
Terror gave her speed, and she flew down the corridor toward the main junction ahead, where it intersected with the primary hallway.
Almost there.
Almost—
An arm shot out from the junction and grabbed her.
Maggie screamed, fought, thrashed against the grip. Strong hands caught her shoulders, pulled her around the corner, and pressed her against the wall.
"Maggie! Maggie, it's me!"
Reece.
His face. His eyes. His hands were steady on her shoulders.
She collapsed against him, shaking so hard her teeth chattered.
"You're okay," he said, his voice low and urgent. "You're safe. I've got you."
Behind them, she could hear Pike's footsteps. Running. Getting closer.
Reece pulled back slightly, his hands still on her shoulders, his eyes locked on hers. "How many shots did he fire?"
Maggie's mind spun. "What?"
"How many bullets? How many times did he shoot?"
She forced herself to think through the terror. "Three. At the door lock. Then one in the hallway. Four total."
Reece's mouth curved into something dark and satisfied. Those four shots along with the other’s he’d expended eliminated any chance of more ammo in the clip. Even if the son of a bitch had the largest model available. "Good. The fucker's out of bullets."
He looked past her, down the corridor they'd just come from.
Maggie turned to follow his gaze.
And screamed.
At least fifteen people in full tactical gear filled the corridor behind Reece. Black uniforms. Body armor. Helmets with visors. Rifles raised and ready. They looked like something out of a military operation, not real people. Just lethal shadows waiting for orders.
Guardian Security.
"Stay with them," Reece said, already moving past her. "Don't move."
"Reece—"
But he was already gone, stepping into the corridor where Pike's footsteps were echoing closer.
* * *
Reece moved into the center of the corridor and waited.
Jonah Pike rounded the corner at a dead run, weapon raised, finger on the trigger.
He pulled it the moment he saw Reece.
Click.
Empty.
Pike's face twisted with rage and desperation. He threw the useless gun at Reece and kept coming.
Max's voice crackled in Reece's ear. "Ranger, don't do this. Just apprehend him. Let the team handle it."
Reece sneered. “Hell no.”
Behind him, he heard Deacon's voice. "Reece—"
"Stand down," Reece said without turning around, his eyes never leaving Pike. "He's mine."
"Damn it, let us—"
"I said stand down." His voice went cold. Final. "All of you. Nobody moves. Nobody intervenes. This one's personal."
There was silence on the comms, then Deacon's reluctant acknowledgment. "Copy. We're holding position."
Pike slowed as he approached, breathing hard, blood running down the side of his face. Clearly, Maggie had gotten a good hit in somehow. His eyes were wild but calculating. Assessing Reece. Looking for weakness.
He wouldn't find any.
"You tried to kill her," Reece said quietly.
Pike smiled. "The bastard should've pushed her harder."
The rage that had been building in Reece since the maintenance bay, since he'd pulled Maggie back from that edge, since he'd learned this man had ordered her death … it all came flooding to the surface.
And it was controlled, focused, and lethal.
"Come on then," Reece said.
Pike charged.
He came in fast, military training evident in every movement. A feint left, strike right. His fist drove toward Reece's ribs.
Reece blocked, redirected, and countered with an elbow that caught Pike's shoulder. Pike twisted away, reset, came again.
They traded blows in the narrow corridor. Punch. Block. Strike. Counter. Both men were trained. Both were dangerous. The sound of fists hitting flesh echoed off the steel walls.
Pike's knee drove up toward Reece's midsection, but Reece caught it, twisted, and threw Pike against the wall. Pike's back hit hard, but he used the momentum to push off, shoulder-checking Reece backward.
They grappled. Pike got his arm around Reece's neck, trying to lock in a choke. Reece drove his elbow back into Pike's ribs. Once. Twice. Three times. That last hit was hard enough to crack the bastard’s ribs.
When Pike's grip loosened, Reece spun, broke free, and slammed his fist into Pike's nose. Cartilage crunched, and blood sprayed down the front of Pike’s shirt.
Pike roared, staggered back, then came forward with savage desperation.
Reece saw it. The man knew he was beaten.
Pike was in the throes of desperation, but desperate men were dangerous.
Reece knew he had to stay sharp. Pike tackled him, driving them both to the floor.
They rolled, each trying to gain a dominant position.
Pike ended up on top, fist drawn back.
He drove it down toward Reece's face.
Reece turned his head, and the punch glanced off his cheekbone instead of breaking his nose. Though stars exploded in his vision, he kept moving and kicked up, bucking his hips and throwing Pike off balance.
Reece rolled, reversed position, and rained down three punches in rapid succession. Face. Ribs. Face again.
Pike's head snapped back with each impact. But the man was a tough, spec ops-trained killer. He'd survived worse. He grabbed Reece's shirt, pulled him down, and headbutted him.
Pain exploded through Reece's forehead, and his vision blurred. Pike threw him off and scrambled to his feet, and Reece followed him to his feet.
Both men stood, breathing hard, bloodied, circling each other in the corridor.
Pike's face was a mask of blood and rage. His left eye was swelling shut. Ribs probably cracked. But he was still standing. Still fighting.
"You should've stayed out of this," Pike spat, blood dripping from his mouth.
"You should've left her alone," Reece replied.
Pike lunged again. This time, Reece was ready. He sidestepped, caught Pike's arm, and used the momentum to slam him face-first into the wall. Pike's forehead hit steel with a sickening thud.
He dropped to one knee.
Reece didn't give him time to recover. He moved in, his knee driving up into Pike's midsection. The air left Pike's lungs in a rush.
Pike tried to stand, but Reece grabbed his collar, yanked him up, and delivered a devastating right cross that snapped Pike's head sideways.
Pike crumpled.
But Reece wasn't done. He grabbed Pike by the front of his shirt, hauled him up again, and drove him back against the wall. Held him there with one hand while he delivered four precise strikes. Solar plexus. Ribs. Kidney. Ribs again.
Each blow was calculated. Controlled. Designed to inflict maximum damage without killing. When Pike's legs gave out, Reece let him drop to the floor. Pike tried to crawl away, but Reece put his boot on Pike's back, pressed down, and forced him flat against the cold steel.
"You tried to kill her," Reece said, his voice deadly quiet. "You lured her to that bay. You had someone push her over the edge. You tried to erase her like she was nothing."
Pike coughed, blood spattering on the floor. "Just … following orders …"
“I knew he’d say that.” Max sighed.
"I don't care." Reece pressed down harder, ignoring Max. "You made a choice. You decided her life didn't matter. That was your mistake."
Then, reaching down, he grabbed Pike's arm, twisted it behind his back at an angle that made Pike scream, and zip-tied his wrists with brutal efficiency.
Then Reece stood, breathing hard, looking down at the broken man on the floor.
"Deacon," he said into his comms.
"Here."
"He's yours. Get him out of my sight."
Cobra team moved forward immediately. Deacon and Ace hauled Pike to his feet. The man could barely stand. His face was a ruin. Blood everywhere. Left eye swollen completely shut. Ribs clearly broken.
But he was alive.
"Medical's going to have fun with this one," Ace muttered. “Why does he have to bleed all over my boots?”
They dragged Pike away, down the corridor toward the extraction point.
Reece stood there, chest heaving, hands bloody, knuckles split open.
Max's voice came through his comms. Quiet. Carefully neutral. "Feel better?"
Reece wiped blood from his mouth. "Yeah. I do."
"Good. Because your woman just watched you beat a man half to death. You might want to go explain that."
Reece turned.
Maggie stood at the junction where he'd left her, surrounded by Guardian operators. Her face was pale. Eyes wide. Hands pressed to her mouth.
She'd seen everything.
He walked toward her slowly, aware of how he must look. Blood on his face. Split knuckles. The barely controlled violence still radiating from him.
The Guardian operators stepped aside, giving him room.
Reece stopped a few feet away from Maggie.
"You okay?" he asked.
She lowered her hands slowly. Stared at him. Then, to his surprise, she leaped forward and wrapped her arms around him. “Sweet Jesus, Reece, what you did … Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I am now,” he said, wrapping an arm around her and holding on tight.
"Thank you," she whispered into his chest.
“For what?” Letting her see his rage? Letting her see him beat a man to pulp? Breaking the ties that bound them together with violence?
She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “You got him. He tried to get me again this morning, but each time he’s tried to hurt me, you stopped him.” She glanced at the blood on the carpet. “He’ll never be able to touch me again. Right?”
“Never,” Reece growled. “He’ll never see the light of day outside a jail,” he vowed. He’d pull every connection he’d ever made to make sure the bastard got the maximum penalty.
“Thank you for that. Thank you for seeing me as someone worth defending, worth the physical violence and worth the pain you’re in now.”
“Maggie, don’t you understand how much you mean to me?”
Her eyes filled with tears. She gave him a shaky smile. “I do … and I did. You mean as much to me. Please tell me you know that.”
Reece tightened his arm around her, holding her just as tightly as she was holding him. "Always."