Chapter 13 The Lion and His Shadow #2
Marcus checked his mirrors, eyes narrowing. “Since we left the palace, I think. Maybe before. Didn't register as threat initially.”
“He is maintaining exact distance. Professional tail. That is not coincidence.”
“Want me to lose him?”
“No. Keep steady pace. I need to see what he does when we change conditions.” I pulled my phone, dialed the lead security car. “Alpha One, we have potential tail. Black motorcycle, no visible plates. Three cars back. Be ready for anything.”
“Copy that. We see him. Watching.”
I kept my eyes on the motorcycle. The rider wore all black. Full helmet. Gloves. Nothing identifiable. But the way he moved spoke of training. Military precision in every lane change.
We approached the bridge crossing the Thames. Narrower here. Only two lanes each direction. Construction had reduced it further. The motorcade was forced into single file by the bottleneck, stretched out like a snake with too much exposed belly.
Vulnerable.
Every instinct I had screamed danger.
The motorcycle moved closer. Two cars back now. One. Too close for coincidence.
“Marcus, when I say move, you floor it and do not stop for anything. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sebastian.” I kept my voice level. Calm. “I need you to get on the floor. Right now. Do not argue. Do not ask questions. Just do it.”
“Viktor—”
“Now!”
The motorcycle pulled alongside the car between us and them. The rider's hand moved inside his jacket, and I saw metal. Chrome. A pistol.
“Down!” I roared, spinning in my seat. “Sebastian, get down now!”
He dropped to the floor without hesitation. Good. He'd listened.
The first shot hit the windshield. The sound was like a hammer on stone. Spiderweb crack bloomed across ballistic glass, but it held. Level four protection. Thank fuck.
The second shot hit the rear tire. The car lurched hard right, fishtailing on wet pavement.
“Drive!” I barked at Marcus. “Go go go!”
He punched it, but we were already sliding. The blown tire threw off the balance. Sparks sprayed from the rim grinding asphalt.
A black van swerved from the opposite lane, cutting across traffic like physics didn't apply. Horns blared. Brakes screamed. The van's side door was already sliding open, revealing armed men inside. Three. No, four. Automatic weapons raised.
Military-grade hardware. Body armor. Coordinated movements.
This wasn't random. This was professional.
“Contact!” I shouted into my comm. “Multiple hostiles. Automatic weapons. We are under attack!”
Gunfire erupted. Full automatic. The sound was deafening even through armor. Bullets hammered the car like hail. Marcus kept driving, swerving between lanes, trying to find an out, but there was nowhere to go.
Another vehicle cut us off from the front. Black sedan. Tinted windows. Boxing us in.
Trap. This was a fucking trap.
More gunfire from behind. The rear windshield cracked. Held. But wouldn't hold forever.
“Marcus, there!” I pointed at an alley opening between buildings. Narrow. Barely wide enough. “Go!”
He cranked the wheel hard right. The car scraped brick, metal shrieking. We were off the main road. Away from crossfire. But not safe.
Never safe.
The alley was a knife edge. Dumpsters on both sides. Fire escapes. Water pooling in potholes that jolted the car on its damaged tire. Marcus kept us moving, foot down, engine screaming.
Then his head snapped forward. Blood sprayed across the windshield from the inside, arterial red against cracked glass.
“Fuck!”
I lunged forward, grabbing the wheel as Marcus slumped sideways. Dead. Gone. No time to check. No time to mourn.
I held the wheel one-handed, reaching down with the other to shove his foot off the gas pedal so I could control our speed. The car swerved wildly. I was half-standing, half-wedged between seats, steering blind through a windshield painted red.
Behind us, tires squealed. They were following. Of course they were following.
The alley ended in a T-junction. Left or right. Split-second decision. I chose left, cranking the wheel. The car skidded on the blown tire, back end swinging out, slamming into a dumpster hard enough to crumple metal.
We stopped. Engine died. Sudden silence except for rain and my own breathing and the ringing in my ears.
I pulled my weapon from my shoulder holster, checked the magazine by touch. Full. Fifteen rounds. Good.
“Sebastian, are you hit?”
“No!” His voice came from the floor. Steady. Controlled. No panic. “I'm fine!”
“There is spare magazine in my left jacket pocket. Take it. And take Marcus's sidearm from his holster. Do not hesitate if you need to use it. Anyone who is not me or marked law enforcement, you put them down. Understand?”
“Understood.”
I kicked my door open and rolled out, weapon up, scanning. The alley was empty for now. Trash. Puddles. Fire escapes climbing brick walls on both sides like iron skeletons.
Footsteps echoed from where we'd come. Multiple sets. Moving fast. Boots on wet pavement. Military cadence.
I moved to the rear door, yanked it open. “Out. Now. Stay behind me and do exactly what I say when I say it.”
Sebastian emerged, Marcus's Glock in his hand, eyes hard and focused. No fear there. Like he'd flipped a switch and become someone else.
Good. Fear got you killed.
The first attacker rounded the corner fifteen meters out. Masked. Black tactical gear. Armed with a submachine gun. Professional loadout.
I put two rounds in his chest before he could raise the weapon. Center mass. He went down hard, weapon clattering across wet pavement.
Two more behind him. I dropped into cover behind the car, returning fire. Bullets sparked off metal. More glass shattered. One of them took a round through his thigh and went down screaming. The other retreated back around the corner.
“How many do you count?” Sebastian asked, crouched beside me.
“At least six that I have seen. Probably more in reserve. This is coordinated assault. Multiple teams. Someone planned this carefully.”
“Fantastic.”
Something small and black bounced into the alley. Metallic clink. Rolling toward us across wet pavement.
Grenade.
“Move! Now!”
I grabbed Sebastian by his jacket and ran. Five steps. Ten. My legs pumped, lungs burning, pulling him with me as fast as we could go.
The explosion lifted us off our feet. Heat and pressure and sound that felt like the world ending. We flew forward into the intersection, hitting pavement hard. I twisted mid-air, taking the impact on my back, Sebastian on top of me, my body between him and the blast.
Pain exploded through my shoulder. Hot. Sharp. Shrapnel, probably. Something tore through flesh. Didn't matter. Not yet.
Ears ringing. Vision swimming. Tasted copper and smoke. The world sounded like I was underwater.
“Viktor!” Sebastian's voice, muffled and distant. His hands on my face. “Viktor, are you hit? Talk to me!”
“Am fine. We need to move. Now.”
I shoved him off me and stood. Everything hurt. My shoulder was on fire. Something wet ran down my back. Blood. A lot of it.
Not important. Moving was important.
I grabbed Sebastian's arm and we ran down the side street, boots splashing through puddles, rain hammering down cold and relentless. Behind us, voices shouted. Coordinating. Hunting.
They wanted Sebastian alive or dead. Either way, they weren't stopping.
I pulled him into a recessed doorway. Loading dock for some warehouse. Locked. But it gave us cover. Concealment. Seconds to breathe.
“How bad?” Sebastian asked, looking at my shoulder.
Blood soaked through my jacket, running down my arm. Dark. Too much. “Flesh wound. I have had worse.”
“You're bleeding a lot for a flesh wound.”
“Is manageable. Be quiet now.”
Footsteps approached. Three sets. Tactical spacing. Professional movement. These weren't street thugs. These were trained operators.
I counted heartbeats. Listened to their rhythm. Waited until they were close enough.
Then I stepped out and engaged.
Close quarters. No room for mistakes. No time for hesitation. The first man turned, weapon rising. I shot him twice. Double tap. Center mass. He dropped.
The second got a shot off. Bullet grazed my ribs, tearing through fabric and skin. White-hot pain. I stumbled but kept firing. Put him down with a headshot. Red mist. He fell.
The third was faster. Smarter. His round caught my left arm. Pain exploded. My weapon dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers.
He closed the distance, knife flashing in his hand. Military blade. Serrated edge. He came in low, going for my gut.
Sebastian shot him. Three rounds. Chest. Throat. Face. The man's head snapped back, and he went down in a heap.
Silence.
Just rain and our breathing and my blood dripping onto pavement.
I looked at Sebastian. His hands were steady on Marcus's Glock. His face was pale but composed. No shock. No hesitation. No surprise at taking a life.
This wasn't his first time pulling a trigger. Wasn't his first time watching someone die by his hand.
Who the fuck was this prince?
“Come,” I said, retrieving my weapon with my good hand. “More will come. Always more.”
We moved through the streets, staying to alleys and side roads. Keeping away from main thoroughfares where cameras would track us. Where more attackers might be waiting.
I was leaving a blood trail. Couldn't help it. The shoulder wound was deeper than I'd thought. The ribs were bad. The arm was worse. My left side was soaked red.
“Viktor, you need medical attention. Now.”
“Later. First we get somewhere safe. Somewhere they cannot follow.”
“You're barely walking.”
“Can walk well enough to keep you alive. That is what matters.”
“That's not—”
“Do not argue with me right now, Sebastian. Just move.”
We reached a parking garage. Old. Abandoned by the look of it. Graffiti covered the walls. Broken glass littered the ground. Perfect.
I pulled him into the stairwell, and we climbed. Each step was agony. My vision was starting to blur at the edges. Blood loss. Shock. My body trying to shut down.
Not yet. Not until he was safe.
Third level. Found a corner hidden from view. Behind a concrete pillar. Out of sight from the entrance.
I slid down the wall, breathing hard. Everything hurt. Everything was on fire. My hands were shaking.
Sebastian knelt beside me immediately, hands moving over my injuries with surprising competence. Checking. Assessing. His touch was gentle but efficient.
“Shoulder's through-and-through. That is good, but you have lost a lot of blood. Ribs are grazed but I do not think anything is fractured. Arm is bad. Bullet might still be in there.”
“You know field medicine?”
“I know enough.” He pulled off his jacket, started tearing strips from his shirt underneath. White fabric turning red in his hands. “This is going to hurt.”
“Everything already hurts. Do what you need to do.”
He packed the shoulder wound with fabric, pressing down hard. I hissed through my teeth, vision whiting out for a second.
“I am sorry. I know it hurts. But I need to stop the bleeding.”
“You are doing fine. Keep going.”
He worked quickly. Efficiently. Like he'd done this before. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.
He finished bandaging the shoulder, tied it off tight. His hands lingered there, warm through the fabric. Real. Solid.
Rain drummed on concrete above us. Sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer. The world kept turning while we sat bleeding in an abandoned parking garage, inches apart, everything wrong between us suddenly feeling inevitable.
I should've moved. Should've ended this before it became something neither of us could take back. Should've maintained the discipline that had kept me alive for thirty-eight years.
But I was tired. Bleeding. And he was looking at me like I mattered beyond my ability to kill for him. Like I was something more than weapon. More than ghost.
Like I was human.
“We should go,” I said instead of what I wanted to say.
Instead of admitting that I wanted him too.
That I'd wanted him since the workshop. Since he'd touched my face in the training hall.
Since I'd realized he saw me. “Emergency services will be here soon. We need to be somewhere they can find us.”
“Yeah.” But he didn't move. Neither did I.
We sat there in that gray space, rain and blood and something unnamed between us, his hand still on my chest, my fingers still around his wrist.