Chapter 6 #4
Jarvis charges. I sidestep, grab his arm, use his momentum to slam him face-first into the wall. Once. Twice. Blood smears the peeling paint. His knees buckle but he catches himself on a filing cabinet, spinning with something metallic in his hand.
Brass knuckles.
The first hit takes me across the cheekbone. My head snaps back, stars bursting across my vision. The second catches my shoulder, numbing my entire arm.
I drop low, sweep, and this time he doesn't get up fast enough. I'm on him, straddling his chest, raining down blows. Nose. Jaw. Throat. Each impact sends shockwaves up my arms, pain singing through my cracked ribs, but I don't stop.
Can't stop.
His hands come up, grabbing for my wrists, and we're grappling again, rolling across broken glass and spent shell casings. My back hits something sharp—the desk leg—and I gasp.
He uses the opening.
His fist connects with my ribs again. Same spot. The crack becomes a break and I scream, can't help it, white-hot agony stealing my breath.
“IVY!” Multiple voices now. Luce. Punk. Daniel.
But they're far away. Distant. All I can hear is my own pulse thundering in my ears, my own ragged breathing mixing with Jarvis.
And I remember the knife in my boot.
My hand moves on instinct. The blade slides free just as his fist comes down. I twist, and instead of my face, his knuckles smash into the floor. He roars, pulls back for another strike—
I bury the knife in his throat.
Blood sprays hot across my face, my chest. His eyes go wide, hands flying to his neck, trying to staunch the crimson fountain pulsing between his fingers.
He makes a sound. Wet. Gurgling.
I shove him off me, roll to my knees, ribs shrieking in protest. My hands are shaking. Everything's shaking.
The office door explodes open.
Three guards, weapons drawn, and I'm still on the floor, covered in blood, my Glock somewhere on the other side of the room—
“Northeast corner,” Luce snaps. “Gun. Three feet from your position.”
I lunge.
The first shot hits the doorframe by my head. Splinters spray. I grab the Glock, roll, come up firing.
One. Two. Three.
Each shot precise despite the trembling in my hands. Between the eyes, center of the throat, two in the chest and one in the head.
They drop.
Silence crashes down like a physical thing.
I'm standing in the middle of a slaughterhouse, breathing hard, ribs grinding with each inhale. Blood everywhere. Bodies everywhere. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering, casting everything in sick yellow shadows.
“Ivy.” Daniel's voice is carefully controlled. “Status.”
I prod my ribs gently, bite back a whimper. “Alive. Mostly.”
“Target?”
I look at Jarvis. He's stopped twitching. The pool of blood around him is spreading, dark and glossy.
“Confirmed.”
“Get out,” Luce says. “Now. Before—”
Sirens. Distant but growing closer.
“Fuck.” I'm moving before I finish the word, grabbing my knife from the wall, from Jarvis neck, wiping blades on a dead guard's shirt. My Glock goes back in its holster. Each movement sends fresh pain through my chest.
The stairs are a nightmare. Each step is agony, ribs grinding, but I force myself to move. Fast. Faster.
I hit the main floor at a stumbling run, heading for the service door. Cold air hits my face like a slap.
The car door is already open.
I collapse into the backseat and Daniel floors it before I can even close the door properly. Tires squeal. The warehouse recedes in the side mirror, getting smaller, guards spilling out onto the loading dock, too late, too slow.
“Jesus Christ.” Daniel glances at me, then back at the road. “You look like hell.”
“Feel worse.” I slump against the seat, pressing one hand to my ribs. When I pull it away, there's blood. Mine or Jarvis, I can't tell anymore.
My earpiece crackles.
“Ivy.” Luce's voice is shaky. Relief and fury mixing together. “Don't ever do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Nearly die.”
I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted beyond measure. “Wasn't planning on it.”
“You never are.” Punk this time. “I'll divert the cops for a bit and call in clean up just to be sure.”
The city blurs past outside the window. Lights and shadows. The choker sits heavy against my throat, and for one insane moment I wonder what Asher would think if he could see me now. Covered in blood. Broken ribs. Hands still shaking from adrenaline comedown.
You're terrified of wanting anything.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don't need to check it to know—
Asher: How's your night going?
I stare at the message, then at my bloodstained gloves, then back at the message.
Me: Quiet. Boring. You?
Asher: Same. What are you wearing
My laugh leaves me through bloody lips, catching Daniel's attention.
Me: Pretty sure you don't want to know.
I lock the phone, lean my head back, and focus on breathing through the pain.
In my ear, Luce, and Punk are already dissecting the job, analyzing what went wrong, what went right. Professional. Clinical.
But underneath it all, I hear what they're not saying.
You're slipping.
You're distracted.
This almost got you killed.
I know. Tonight was my last until my current…