CHAPTER 54 #2
His breath caught so faintly I might have imagined it.
Then his voice closed again.
“You always believed every structure had a single point of failure,” he said. “You were wrong.”
The call ended.
No goodbye. No explanation.
As close to an apology as Graham Whitaker was capable of giving.
The bigger man lowered the phone.
I looked at him. “Did he tell you which one of you I’m meant to kill first?”
His expression changed.
There.
The right side of my face took the impact. He had weight but poor alignment. Pain cracked across my cheekbone. My head snapped sideways, pulling the wound open beneath the medic’s hand.
The room tilted.
I breathed through it once, then again.
Blood slid from the corner of my mouth. I ran my tongue over my teeth.
All present.
His fist came again.
This time I turned enough to keep the impact away from my mouth. My ears rang.
The medic swore. “Do that again and you can stitch him yourself.”
The bigger man stepped back, breathing harder.
Emotional. Predictable. Angry at being restrained.
Good.
They cut the tie securing my left wrist to the chair so the medic could reach the wound properly.
I did not move.
Let them think the drug, blood loss, and pain had taken more than they had.
The medic cleaned the wound and pressed gauze into it. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted metal.
He was not careless.
He was confident.
That was more useful.
The needle went through skin. Then again.
His left knee cracked whenever he shifted.
The tray sat within reach if I could get one hand free.
Scalpel. Clamps. Trauma shears. Tape.
I counted breaths, steps, stitches, mistakes.
Waited until the final stitch pulled tight, until both men were close enough.
Then I moved.
I snapped my head forward into the medic’s nose.
Cartilage gave beneath my forehead. Blood spilled across his mouth as he fell back with both hands raised to his face.
The second man reached for his weapon.
Too late.
I drove forward with the chair still attached to me and slammed its frame into his thighs.
He went down. One knee folded beneath him with a wet shift that turned his shout into a howl.
The chair tipped.
I struck the concrete shoulder first, and the world disappeared into white pain.
Metal scattered as I kicked the tray.
The scalpel slid across the floor.
I caught it badly and split my palm against the blade, but the handle remained in my hand.
The medic crawled toward the door, blood pouring through his fingers.
I drove the scalpel through his calf.
He screamed and collapsed.
I caught him by the hair, pulled him backward, and drove his face into the concrete.
Once.
Twice.
The second impact took the fight out of him.
The larger man dragged himself toward the fallen gun.
I kicked his arm away, straddled his chest, and pinned his head to the floor.
His eyes widened. “Please.”
I drove the scalpel through his eye.
His body arched once and went still.
My breath came too quickly. The bandage over my shoulder had already turned wet.
The medic lay several feet away, breathing in broken pulls, one hand reaching without purpose.
“I was only told to patch you,” he choked.
I looked down at him.
Fear made men inventive. Inventive men wasted time.
The answers I needed were elsewhere.
“Thank you,” I said, retrieving the scalpel. “Your services are no longer required.”
I pulled his head forward and opened his throat.
He made one wet sound, then none.
I stood too quickly and caught the edge of the tray before my legs failed.
Two bodies. Blood across the concrete. Iron thick in the air.
I searched them.
Gun. Extra magazine. Folding knife. Car key. Phone.
The medic carried a keycard, two ampoules, and nicotine gum.
I took all of it because inventory still made sense when very little else did.
A duffel beneath the desk held clean gauze, cash, a burner, zip ties, keys, and a spare shirt.
My shoulder bled steadily beneath the ruined dressing.
I packed fresh gauze against it and wrapped tape around myself one-handed. Crooked. Too tight. Sufficient.
Fixing could wait.
Brynn could not.
I crossed to the door and listened.
Nothing.
No footsteps, voices, or alarm.
I opened it.
A concrete hallway stretched beyond the room beneath exposed pipes and weak overhead lights. The air smelled of damp insulation, diesel, and old smoke.
I moved with the gun low against my thigh.
My left hand tingled as sensation returned. My right wrist throbbed beneath the damage from the road.
A second door opened into a loading bay.
Cold air struck my face.
Fields. Fuel. Rain waiting somewhere beyond the dark.
Three vehicles sat outside: a black van, a gray sedan, and a dark green hatchback with mud on the tires.
I chose the hatchback.
Smaller. Less visible. More likely to blend into whatever road waited outside the property.
The key fit.
The engine started on the second attempt.
My hands shook against the wheel.
Blood loss. Adrenaline. Pain. Rage.
Whitaker had used the trust I gave him to pull me away from Brynn.
Tomar had used the system I built.
Reinhardt had tried to warn us, and Tomar had turned the investigation that followed into a path back to her.
I had followed all of it.
But Brynn was still at the rental.
Still waiting.
The tires tore across the gravel as I reversed.
The house was twenty-seven kilometers away by my estimate.
I put the car into gear and drove toward her.