CHAPTER 7 #2
The mercenary is testing the lock.
I raise the gun with both hands. My arms are shaking so badly the muzzle paints erratic circles in the dark air.
I force my left hand to wrap tighter around my right, locking my elbows.
I remember what Callum did in the dark kitchen—how he wrapped my fingers around the grip, how he told me to keep my finger above the trigger until I was ready to fire.
I plant my feet shoulder-width apart. I lean forward.
The handle rattles again, more violently this time.
Then, I hear a heavy, metallic clack against the outside of the door.
He isn't going to pick the lock. He is going to breach it.
I look down at the left side of the gun. My thumb finds the small metal lever. I push it down. A tiny red dot is exposed on the frame. The safety is off.
"Come on," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Come on, you son of a bitch."
A deafening explosion rocks the stairwell.
The mercenary blew the deadbolt with a breaching charge. The heavy steel door flies open, slamming against the interior wall with a violent crash.
A thick cloud of gray smoke and plaster dust billows into the stairwell, illuminated by the pale light of the monitors behind me.
Through the smoke, a thin, bright green laser cuts through the dark. It sweeps down the wooden stairs, searching for a target.
I don't wait for the laser to find my chest.
I close my eyes, aim at the center of the doorway, and pull the trigger.
The recoil is explosive. The gun kicks upward in my hands with a violence that sends a shockwave up my arms, nearly tearing the grip from my sweaty palms. The sound of the gunshot in the enclosed concrete basement is absolute agony. It feels like an ice pick being driven into my eardrums.
I force my eyes open. I pull the trigger again. And again.
The flashes from the muzzle illuminate the stairwell in strobe-like bursts of yellow and white.
I see the mercenary recoil. Sparks fly off the doorframe where one of my bullets hits the steel. He tries to bring his submachine gun down to return fire, but the narrow angle of the stairs and the smoke obscure his vision.
He fires a short, blind burst.
The bullets impact the concrete wall to my left, showering my arm with sharp chips of stone. I flinch, stumbling backward, my heel catching on the leg of the mesh chair.
I fall hard onto the floor, the gun slipping from my grip and skittering across the concrete into the dark.
"No," I gasp, scrambling onto my hands and knees, frantically sweeping the floor for the weapon.
Heavy boots hit the top wooden stair.
He is coming down.
I find the cold metal of the gun under the edge of the desk. I grab it, rolling onto my back, bringing the weapon up to aim at the stairs.
The mercenary is halfway down. His night-vision goggles look like the eyes of an insect in the smoke. He raises the submachine gun, the green laser painting a bright line directly across the center of my chest.
I freeze.
My finger is on the trigger, but my brain completely stalls. The laser is a physical weight on my heart. I am out of time.
Before either of us can pull the trigger, a shadow drops into the stairwell behind him.
It happens so fast the human eye can barely process the physics of it.
Callum doesn't use the stairs. He simply drops from the top landing, his entire body weight crashing into the back of the mercenary.
The impact sends both men tumbling down the remaining wooden steps. The mercenary’s submachine gun discharges wildly into the ceiling as they fall, deafening me all over again.
They hit the concrete floor at the bottom of the stairs in a tangle of limbs and tactical gear, less than five feet from where I am lying.
I scramble backward, pressing myself against the server tower, aiming the gun at the dark mass of bodies. I can't shoot. I can't tell who is who.
The mercenary is bigger, weighed down by heavy ceramic armor, but Callum moves with a brutal, terrifying efficiency. The mercenary tries to bring his weapon up, but Callum drives his knee into the man’s forearm, pinning it to the floor.
The mercenary throws a wild, desperate punch, catching Callum across the jaw.
Callum’s head snaps to the side, but he doesn't even flinch. He doesn't make a sound. He simply turns his head back, his eyes catching the pale light of the monitors.
He raises his right hand. The matte-black combat knife is gripped tightly in his fist.
He drives it down.
The mercenary goes completely rigid. A wet, awful sound escapes the man's throat, and then his heavy body goes slack against the concrete.
Callum stays kneeling over the body for three agonizing seconds. His chest is heaving, his breathing harsh and ragged in the quiet basement. Slowly, he pulls the knife free.
He stands up.
He is covered in dust. There is a dark smear of blood across the collar of his t-shirt. He looks down at me, his chest rising and falling heavily.
I am still lying on the floor, my back against the server, both hands gripping the Sig Sauer, pointing it directly at his chest.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely hold the weapon steady.
Callum looks at the gun. Then he looks at my face.
He doesn't tell me to lower it. He doesn't move suddenly. He takes one slow, deliberate step forward, stopping just at the edge of the barrel.
"Gemma," he says. His voice is a low, rough rasp.
I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. "You're bleeding."
"It’s not mine." He slowly raises his left hand, keeping his palm open and visible. He reaches out, his fingers gently wrapping around the hot barrel of the gun I am holding. "Let it go."
I stare at him. The adrenaline is crashing out of my system, leaving me hollow and trembling. I look at his eyes. They aren't cold anymore. They are burning with a dark, intense heat that I have never seen before.
I release my grip on the gun.
He takes the weapon from me, setting it on the desk without looking away from my face.
Then, he reaches down, grabs the fabric of the oversized cashmere hoodie, and pulls me up off the floor.
He doesn't let go when I am standing. He pulls me flush against his chest, his arms wrapping tightly around my back, burying my face in the curve of his neck.
The smell of cedar, dust, and blood fills my lungs.
I don't fight him. I drop my forehead against his shoulder, my hands coming up to grip the fabric of his t-shirt, anchoring myself to the monster who just saved my life.
"I have you," he whispers into my hair, his voice fierce and absolute. "I have you."