Chapter 9 #6
The man jumped back, kicked at his knife hand. Alan slashed again, and the man grabbed a serving tray off a cart, using it as a shield. The blade punched through thin metal with a screech.
Alan wrenched the knife free. They scuffled down the galley, crashing into carts, scattering cutting boards. He heard a voice somewhere—female, sharp with fear—but couldn’t look, couldn’t take his eyes off his attacker.
“Ry!” A woman’s voice. Concerned.
Someone he cared about. Good. A distraction.
Alan headbutted Ry. Felt the man’s nose crunch. Blood exploded between them.
The man staggered but held on, twisting with Alan as they slammed into the counters, bloodying everything they touched.
Finally, Alan broke free. Wiped his wrist across his face.
“Whoever’s left in here needs to get out right now,” The man called Ry said, not looking away from Alan.
Alan smiled. It felt wrong on his face—too sharp, too hollow. “I know you’re weak. I saw you go down in Italy. I know one good shot to the knee and this is over.” He set the knife down on the counter, held up his hands. “See? I don’t even need it.”
A feint. An invitation. Come at me. Let’s end this.
Alan grabbed the blade and lunged.
They collided over the prep station. Ry blocked with the serving tray again, metal screaming as the blade punched through. Alan wrenched it free, slashed, felt the edge catch flesh.
The man’s fist connected with his ribs—right where York’s knife had gone in months ago. The old wound screamed. Alan’s vision went gray at the edges.
And then—
BAM.
The sound was so loud it reverberated through his bones. The world went white, then gray; then he was on his knees somehow, the linoleum cold under his palms, blood dripping from his hairline.
A woman stood over him. Dark hair tumbling from its pins, heels gone, breathing hard. She held a cast-iron pan like a weapon.
Ry’s knee slammed into the center of his back, driving him flat. A hand wrenched his arm up, bent his wrist into a submission hold that sent lightning bolts of pain up his shoulder.
“Don’t move.” Ry’s voice was ragged. “Don’t even breathe wrong.”
Alan didn’t move. The fight had gone out of him—not because of the pain, but because some part of him had been waiting for this moment since Seattle. Since Sophia. Since he’d realized he’d lost any reason to keep fighting. Revenge simply wasn’t enough anymore.
Footsteps. Jake appeared in the doorway, blood covering his face, a giant welt swelling over his eye. He held a gun—where he’d gotten it, Alan didn’t know. Didn’t care.
“Dude—sorry.” Jake’s voice was slurred. He grasped the counter as if the world were spinning. “He got the drop on me.”
Another woman rushed into view—brown hair pulled back, worried eyes. “Jake!” She grabbed him, helped him slide down to the floor. “I need some ice and a bandage.”
“It looks worse than it is—”
“That’s a serious head wound.”
The woman with the pan knelt beside Orion. “You’re bleeding too.”
“Good job with that pan, babe.” Orion’s voice was tight with pain, but there was something like pride in it.
“Teamwork,” she said, and Alan heard her smile even though he couldn’t see it.
More footsteps. More voices. The cavalry arriving.
“Somebody get help,” Ry said.
“You got it.” A new voice—familiar, somehow. Alan couldn’t place it.
He turned his head and saw . . . well, he knew this bunch—Navy SEAL Ford Marshall, his CIA sister, Ruby Jane, and York Newgate entering the kitchen.
York.
The man looked exactly as he had in the ballroom—composed, controlled, lethal. But his eyes, when they found Alan’s, burned with something cold and endless.
Another man followed them in. Leaner, sharp-featured. He smiled when he saw. “Hey there, Orion.”
“Roy.” Orion’s voice held surprise. “What are you doing here? You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good. Especially now that you got this guy. We’ve been trying to pin him down for a while. All those missives sent by Signe to the CIA? Martin intercepted them. Redirected them.”
Yeah, he had. But that was old news.
The Bratva had moved on to other crimes, dragging Alan along.
York walked over. Bent down in front of Alan, close enough that Alan could see the scar on his jaw. “Hey there, pal. Remember me?”
Alan said nothing.
York looked up at Orion. “Last time we met, Martin tried to kill me.”
“Get in line,” Orion said.
“Search him,” Roy said. “Make sure he doesn’t have anything lethal.”
Ford patted him down, rough and efficient. Came up with the cell phone and the key card. The phone was locked.
“What’s this?” Ford held up the key card. “Where does this go?”
Alan closed his eyes. The linoleum was cool against his cheek. The pain was distant now, almost peaceful.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“What?”
“Whatever you’re trying to stop.” A laugh bubbled up—broken, bloody. “You’re all too late anyway.”
But even as he said it, even as they hauled him to his feet and zip-tied his wrists and marched him toward whatever dark room awaited, Alan felt something he hadn’t felt in months.
Relief.
The running was over. The masks were off. Whatever came next—prison, interrogation, a bullet in a quiet room—at least he wouldn’t have to pretend anymore.
It was over.