Chapter 33 Kirill
Kirill
The third man—taller and broader, with a wisp of a moustache on his face—steps right over his downed partner.
The way he adjusts his stance is fluid. Economical.
Professional.
His gaze tracks my chest as if mapping out entry points for bullet holes.
Dracula, meanwhile, cradles his mangled wrist but doesn’t back off.
They close in on me from opposite sides, working together to drive me into a kill box.
A standard two-man takedown. Pin. Overwhelm. Subdue.
Moustache goes high with a wide right cross meant to snag my eye, thrust up my guard, and draw my defense.
Meanwhile, Dracula drops low, aiming a shoulder tackle at my knees.
If they manage the move, I’m finished.
I handle the low man first.
Always protect the base, because once you lose your legs, the fight’s already over.
I pivot, delivering a side kick straight into the injured guy’s shoulder. My foot lands heavy, full of kinetic promise.
His own forward charge makes the impact brutal. He skids out across the hardwood, colliding with the wall. The thud of his head hitting the drywall stuns him. Loud, but not loud enough to catch anyone’s attention.
He’s temporarily out for now.
Two down.
Unfortunately, that play buys his partner just enough time to try to land a hit.
Moustache punches, clipping my jaw as I spin back to face him.
My jaw’s already clenched, so the assault doesn’t even rattle my teeth, but the blow still hits like a knife against bone. I’m damn lucky he missed.
I close the gap so I can crowd him before he can pull back another fist.
My elbow smashes into his throat. Muscle and cartilage crumble beneath my touch.
He staggers, both hands raised up as he chokes on wet, ugly gasps.
Not out, but definitely compromised. I bought us a few seconds before he adapts.
Jordan’s voice cuts through the noise behind me. “Kirill, the other guy! His aura is borrowing light!”
What does that even mean?
I spot her standing behind the desk with flushed cheeks and pointing toward the wall where Dracula fell.
But the imminent threat is in front of me. The big man, Moustache, keeps fighting. He’s the one who matters.
Every former instructor taught me to neutralize the active danger first, then sweep for leftovers.
As the choking man starts to recover, his hand dips to his waistband.
I need to end him.
Jordan snaps again. “No, the other one! His energy is spiky!”
The way she shouts—not with fear or panic but with absolute authority—stops me in my tracks.
I check behind me.
Dracula, the man I’d written off, pushes to his feet.
In his good hand, a serrated knife flashes silver.
Spiky.
Because I react late, the knife slices my shirt. Adrenaline dispels the sting, but the cold edge of the blade against my chest still jolts me.
If I hadn’t shifted, that knife would be deep between my ribs.
Jordan’s voodoo just saved my life.
I almost died because I ignored her. Because I trusted old training over a new variable, even though I know the battlefield is always changing.
Fuck.
I dart backward, pinning the knife-wielder to the wall with my weight.
His skull meets plaster, and the blade clatters free. His eyes go glassy, but I don’t have time to finish the job.
“Kirill, behind you!” Jordan gasps as a heavy thud comes from her direction.
My gut tightens. Fear slices through my heart like a fucking dagger, but I don’t have time to check on her.
The man with the crushed windpipe is back in action.
The drag of boots and the urgent sucking breaths prickle the back of my neck.
He barrels straight toward me, a long metal weapon in his hands. A fire poker he grabbed from a pile of clutter.
He’s desperate, his face purple and his eyes wild. Too fast and uncontrolled.
Too damn bad for him.
I let him blow past me before redirecting his sprint with a forearm against his back.
Purple Guy crashes face-first into the oak bookcase. The smack is wet and final.
He folds, no longer a threat.
Total, brutal quiet follows. My own breath, loud and ragged, reverberates through the space. Dracula sags down the wall, huffing out small, animalistic noises as he fades. He has thirty seconds of life left, maybe less.
Jordan!
Spinning, I spot the first man slumped on the floor near the desk. Red gushes from two deep slashes on his head, the one from when I dropped him, and a new gash.
Three pros, and I’m the one who remains vertical.
After that fuck-up, I know I shouldn’t be.
Skirting the desk, I find Jordan hunkered down against the far wall.
She clutches a bronze statue—a woman with upraised arms—that’s drenched in blood. Though Jordan’s crouching, she has a perfect stance. She’s wide and braced, with her eyes fixed on the chaos.
Ready to swing again if I need help.
I should be dead or dying. But I’m not because Jordan identified a threat I missed. I’d be fucked without the tactical advantage her illogical language gave me. Then she clobbered the last guy while I was busy.
Probably because he underestimated her too.
Lesson learned.
She just saved my life. Twice.
Everything inside me recalibrates, gears grinding. For days, I’ve written off Jordan’s worldview as a delusional liability. But that’s not what just happened here.
Her manifestation nonsense? Still bullshit. However, I can’t write off what’s underneath. A variable that just rewrote the odds.
Electric tension permeates the air.
I swallow hard and stare at her. “Spiky energy.”
Jordan’s breath shudders, her chest heaving at the torn neckline of her dress. Wild, wet hair frames her blood-smeared cheek.
She’s fucking beautiful.
“You should listen to me more often.” Reaching down, she picks up that damn wool jacket and shoves the fabric against my chest. “I have excellent energetic instincts.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to understand that.” I study her, searching for fear, for shock. I find only fierce, bright determination. “You okay? Did they get to you?”
She shakes her head. The statue drops from her hand, landing with a thud. “Didn’t even get near me. You handled everything.” A flicker of a grin crosses her face. “And even if they had…we hurt them more.”
We.
That word hits more forcefully than any punch.
We. Us.
A unit. Partners.
Terror rips through me, cleaving my chest in half.
I’ve always preferred to work solo to minimize the risk and not dilute the mission.
I break things. I have no algorithm for a partner I can’t bring myself to destroy.
My dread must show on my face or in my stance because Jordan regards me with a tilted head and too-bright eyes.
Before either of us can say more, a new sound cuts in.
A piercing, metallic scream.
Fire alarm.
I sigh. “Shit.”