CHAPTER 22 #2
The air down here is thick with choking diesel fumes.
I sweep every corner, my eyes darting rapidly between the ceiling grates and the intersecting hallways, scanning the dark for any movement.
Every shadow looks like a man holding an automatic rifle, the tension sitting on my shoulders like a physical anvil.
I stop for a second, tilting my head, and hold my left hand up to signal Margarita to stay perfectly still.
I listen for the tink-tink of boots on metal grating.
"Ssh. Listen," I whisper. "Two coming from the aft. Maybe more."
Margarita is ghosting right behind me, her back almost brushing mine.
She’s watching our six, holding the knife in a brutal reverse grip, mimicking my movements and sliding along the slimy walls to minimize her silhouette.
Her shoulder brushes mine, a quick, hot point of contact that reminds me exactly what I’m fighting for.
The synchronization is terrifying, she’s picking up the dance of death in real-time, learning how to be a killer just by breathing my air.
"Clear behind us," she whispers back, the soft sound of her rubber soles shifting on the iron floor. "Keep moving, Damon."
Muffled shouts echo through the ventilation shafts above us.
"Clear! Clear! Where is he?" The voices are distorted by the steel, but the panic and urgency are crystal clear. They found the empty tarp. They realize they’re missing their targets, and the hunt just shifted from search to destroy. I tighten my grip on the Glock, my index finger hovering dangerously close to the trigger guard. They’re getting cocky, rushing the rooms, which is good. Cocky gets you killed.
"They found the nest," I say, the hum of the ship’s emergency generators suddenly kicking on in the distance. "They’re going to seal the hatches. We have to beat them to the porthole."
We reach a small, cramped junction. A single, grime-covered porthole is set into the thick bulkhead, the only source of natural light in this entire rusted tomb.
It’s a pale, miserable, rainy grey. It’s too small for a man my size to climb through, but it’s our only window to the outside, a massive tactical nightmare because it provides just enough backlight for the enemy to see us silhouetted.
I peer through the thick, smeared glass, my hot breath fogging the pane.
I can see the grey, oppressive sky and the relentless rain hitting the glass like gravel.
"There's a boat at the pier," I mutter, scanning the docks outside. "Too many of them on the dock."
We're cornered unless I make a new door out of some bodies. I grab Margarita by the jacket and pull her hard into the deep shadow of the bulkhead, shielding her completely with my massive body. I put my back to the hallway, my gun pointed dead at the dark intersection, and look down at her. The violent, possessive protectiveness surging in my chest borders on absolute mania. I’m torn between my ingrained duty as a soldier to push out and kill them all, and my obsession as a man who cannot risk a single stray bullet touching her skin.
I reach out, my hand trembling slightly from the raw adrenaline flooding my system, and tuck a messy strand of dark hair behind her ear.
"Stay behind me, no matter what," I demand, my eyes locking onto hers. "I'm not letting them touch you again. Look at me, Margarita."
In the fraction of a heartbeat before the storm breaks, I lean down and press a hard, bruising kiss to her forehead.
It’s not romantic, it’s a fucking brand.
A soldier’s violent claim, a promise that says you are mine, and I will slaughter every breathing thing on this ship for you.
I hold the kiss for a second too long, breathing in the smell of rain and copper off her skin, the metallic taste of adrenaline sharp in my mouth.
I’m the only god she needs right now, and I’m going to get her out of this alive.
"Live. That’s an order," I tell her fiercely. "I've got you."
The sharp tink of glass breaking shatters the moment.
A small, black, cylindrical object smashes straight through the porthole glass, raining shards onto the floor, and rolls across the rusted metal right between my boots.
It looks like a heavy metal toy, but I know exactly what the fuck it is.
My eyes widen as I track its path, the reality of the breach hitting me. The siege is over.
"GRENADE!" I roar, the sound tearing my throat open. "CLOSE YOUR EYES!"
Without a single microsecond of hesitation, I lunge.
I don't dive for the grenade to throw it back—there’s no time—I dive for Margarita.
I wrap my massive arms completely around her, tackling her brutally into the corner of the bulkhead.
I pin her face aggressively into my chest, tucking my chin down hard and using my broad back as a thick human shield.
I brace my muscles for the kinetic impact, fully ready to go blind and take the shrapnel if it means she stays whole.
"DON'T LOOK!" I yell, squeezing her tighter, my voice muffled against her hair. "I've got you, I've got you..."
The world simply explodes. A flash of absolute, searing white light rips through the dark, so bright it’s a physical burn on my retinas. I feel the intense, blistering heat of it straight through my tightly closed eyelids, the smell of burning ozone and magnesium instantly choking the air.
"Ugh!" I grunt, my teeth grinding together as the light scorches my brain.
The concussive boom follows instantly, a solid wall of sound that hits my body like a physical fist. The sheer force of it snaps my head back, my teeth clattering together violently.
My ears ring with a high-pitched, agonizing whine that instantly drowns out everything—my breathing, her racing heart, the groaning of the ship.
The silence that follows is deafening, a total loss of my priMargarita senses that leaves me functioning in a complete, terrifying void.
I stumble backward, my equilibrium entirely destroyed by the blast. The ship feels like it’s tilting sideways.
I swat wildly at the air in front of me with one hand, trying to clear the massive white spots burned into my vision, while my other hand keeps a desperate, vice-like grip on Margarita’s jacket.
I’m blind, I’m deaf, and I am wildly exposed.
"Margarita? Margarita!" I yell, though I can't even hear my own voice over the ringing in my skull. "Can't see... stay... stay down..."
Through the fading, blinding white spots, the shadows start bleeding in.
Hulking, massive shapes in heavy tactical gear, wearing gas masks that make them look like oversized, monstrous insects.
They’re swarming through the corridor doors, flooding our position.
I raise the Glock, but my hands feel disconnected, like they’re miles away from my brain.
I pull the trigger out of pure instinct, the heavy recoil sending my arm wide, the 9mm bullet sparking violently off a metal pipe in the ceiling.
Rough, gloved hands grab violently at my shoulders, ripping at my clothes, tearing the space between me and her.
"NO!" I roar, fighting like a feral animal in the dark, throwing elbows and swinging the gun blindly. "GET AWAY FROM HER!"