Chapter Sixteen #2
Emergency lighting cast everything in harsh white and deep black, no gradation between. I advanced with the Glock raised, each step placing my weight carefully to minimize sound.
A door to my left burst open and a guard emerged too close for shooting -- we’d be grappling before I could bring the weapon to bear.
I saw his eyes widen as he registered my presence, saw his hand moving toward the pistol at his hip.
Too slow. I was already moving, closing the distance before he could draw.
I drove my shoulder into his sternum with enough force to crack ribs, using my body weight to slam him against the concrete wall.
His head bounced off the wall with a wet crack.
He tried to bring his knee up into my groin -- decent instinct, poor execution.
I turned my hip, took the impact on my thigh, and drove my fist into his throat.
Once. Twice. Three times. Felt cartilage collapse under my knuckles.
He clawed at my face, desperation making him wild.
Pain lanced across my face but I used it, let it sharpen my focus.
I caught his wrist, twisted until the joint separated with a pop he couldn’t scream about because his crushed throat wouldn’t let air through.
Then I drove my knee into his face, felt his nose shatter, knowing the bone fragments had probably driven into his brain.
He slumped. I let him drop and turned to find Caterina pressed against a support beam, her eyes locked on what I’d just done. Her face was bloodless again. But despite her apparent fear, she kept pushing through it, determined to see this through to the end.
“Keep moving,” I told her, already advancing toward the central bay.
She followed without argument, her footsteps slightly unsteady but maintaining the three-meter distance. I had no doubt she was trying to reconcile the man who’d held her while she cried with the man who’d just crushed someone’s throat with casual efficiency.
The central bay opened up before us -- vast space filled with more shipping containers and industrial equipment, catwalks crisscrossing overhead. Perfect defensive position if Marco had the manpower to hold it. I signaled Caterina to hold position while I scanned for threats.
Movement above. A guard on the catwalk, trying to get an angle on us. I tracked him with the Glock, but he ducked behind a support beam before I could fire. Not ideal -- he’d have the high ground advantage and we’d be exposed crossing the open bay.
Except he made the mistake of leaning out to aim at where he thought I’d be.
I wasn’t there. I’d already moved left, using a forklift for cover, and the angle gave me a clear shot.
I fired twice. He jerked, dropped his weapon, and toppled over the catwalk railing.
His body hit the concrete with the kind of wet thud that said he wasn’t getting up.
“Dante.” Caterina’s voice, tight with stress. “Behind you.”
I spun and found another guard charging from between shipping containers, no weapon visible but his hands reaching for me like he planned to use them.
Big guy, probably relied on size and strength to overwhelm opponents.
He crashed into me before I could bring the Glock around, his momentum driving us both backward.
I hit the concrete hard, his weight crushing down on me. His hands found my throat, squeezed with pressure that cut off my air. I had maybe ten seconds before I’d start losing motor control from oxygen deprivation. Five seconds after that, I’d be unconscious.
I didn’t panic. Panic got you killed.
Instead, I drove my thumbs into his eyes.
Hard. Felt the give of soft tissue, felt him howl and rear back.
The pressure on my throat released. I bucked my hips, using the leverage to throw him off-balance, and rolled.
We grappled across concrete that was already slick with someone else’s blood, each trying to gain the dominant position.
He was strong. But I was trained.
I got my legs around his waist, locked my ankles, and squeezed. He tried to pry my legs apart, wasted energy and oxygen fighting the hold instead of attacking me. Amateur mistake. I gripped his throat and applied pressure.
He struggled. Thrashed. Tried to throw me off balance. I held on, kept the pressure steady and constant, feeling his movements become weaker as blood flow to his brain cut off. Ten seconds. Fifteen. His hands scrabbled at mine without coordination. Twenty seconds. He went limp.
I held the choke for another ten seconds to make sure, then released him and shoved his body aside. He’d be brain dead in another few minutes without blood flow. I didn’t care enough to check.
I stood, retrieving my Glock from where it had skidded during the fight. My throat ached from being choked, my chest burned from the scratches being torn open, and my knuckles were bleeding from hitting concrete and bone. But I was standing and the threats were neutralized.
I turned to check on Caterina and found her staring at me.
Not in fear or with horror. Something else entirely.
Her eyes were tracking the blood on my hands, the way my chest heaved with exertion, the controlled violence I’d just demonstrated.
Her lips were parted, her breathing rapid and shallow in a way that had nothing to do with the firefight.
She was turned on. Watching me kill was turning her on.
The realization hit with unexpected force. My wife, who’d been crying in my arms hours ago, who I’d promised to protect and keep safe, was looking at me like I was prey she wanted to devour. Like the violence I’d unleashed was something she craved instead of feared.
“Dante.” My sister’s voice crackled through the comms, breaking the moment. “Alpha team located a secured door. East side of the central bay. Looks reinforced. Probably where they’re keeping the hostage.”
I pressed my comms button. “Hold position. I’m moving to your location now.”
I signaled Caterina to follow and started toward the east side of the bay.
She moved behind me, maintaining distance but I felt her eyes on my back.
Felt the weight of her attention like a physical touch.
The air between us had charged with something that wasn’t just adrenaline -- something more primal, more dangerous.
We crossed the open bay without encountering additional resistance.
Rizzo and his team had taken position around a heavy metal door that looked like it belonged in a bank vault.
Reinforced steel, electronic lock, the kind of security that said something valuable was being protected on the other side.
Or someone.
“Can we breach it?” I asked Rizzo.
He shook his head. “Shaped charges might work but could collapse the ceiling. And if Marco rigged it with explosives, breaching could trigger them. We need to either find the code or cut through manually.”
I turned to Caterina, found her closer than she should have been, close enough that I could see her pulse hammering at her throat. Close enough to smell the fear and adrenaline and something else on her skin.
“Stay close,” I told her, my voice rougher than intended. “We’re not done yet.”
Her eyes met mine, and I saw the fierce determination beneath the arousal and fear. “I know.”
Movement flickered in my peripheral vision -- wrong angle and timing.
I started to turn, started to bring my weapon around, but the geometry was already off.
A hidden gunman was emerging from behind stacked pallets twenty meters back, his rifle already raised and tracking, the barrel aimed squarely at my exposed back.
Time stretched the way it did when you knew death was coming and couldn’t stop it.
I was turning but the angle was bad, my Glock still tracking left when the threat was coming from behind-right.
Three quarters of a second to complete the turn.
The gunman needed maybe half that to squeeze his trigger. The math was simple and unforgiving.
Then two shots cracked through the warehouse, sharp and precise. Not from the gunman’s position. From behind me. From where Caterina stood.
I completed my turn in time to see the hidden gunman jerk backward, red blooming across his chest. Center mass.
Textbook double-tap. His rifle clattered from his hands as he stumbled, tried to stay upright, and failed.
He collapsed against the pallets and slid down, leaving a smear of blood on the wood.
My brain caught up to what had happened. Caterina had shot him. Had seen the threat I’d missed, had raised her weapon, had squeezed the trigger twice with enough accuracy to drop him before he could fire. Had killed a man to save my life.
I turned fully to face her, found her still in shooting stance -- feet planted, both hands on the pistol grip, arms extended in the position I’d taught her during the brief weapons familiarization before we’d left.
The Glock I’d given her was still raised, still pointed at where the gunman had been, her finger properly indexed along the frame instead of on the trigger now that the threat was eliminated.
She’d remembered everything I’d taught her. And she’d executed under pressure without freezing.
The warehouse echoed with the gunshots’ aftermath, that ringing silence that followed violence. Rizzo and his team had spun at the sound, weapons tracking for additional threats, but they were lowering them now as they processed what had happened.
Caterina’s arms began to tremble. Small shakes at first, then more pronounced as the adrenaline spike crashed into the reality of what she’d done.
She’d taken a life. Watched a man die because she’d put bullets in his chest. The weight of that was hitting her now that the immediate danger had passed.
But she didn’t lower the weapon. Didn’t break her stance. Didn’t look away from the body she’d made. I felt pride. Definitely arousal. And so much more.