Chapter 30
The Debt Of Blood
THORNE
The loading bay is a tunnel of strobing red and the rhythmic, deafening bark of suppressed fire.
The breach came through the roll-up door—a precision charge that vaporized the hinges. Phoenix didn't send a scouting party; they sent a professional cleaning crew. My boots skid on the slick concrete as I drop behind a stack of industrial crates, the impact jarring my teeth.
"Torque, left flank. Halo, stay on the monitors," Ghost's voice cuts through the klaxon.
Beside me, Forest is a wall of deliberate violence, his rifle spitting brass in a steady, lethal cadence. To my right, Brass and Fuse have locked down the secondary entrance, their movements synchronized and surgical. We're holding the line. We're the barrier.
"One's through," Ghost's voice cracks over the comms, sharp and urgent. "Residential corridor. He bypassed the kitchen."
The air in my lungs turns to ice.
"I'm going." I'm already shoving off the crate, but the air suddenly fills with the thwip-thwip of suppressed rounds. A line of sparks dances across the concrete inches from my boots, pinning me back.
"Negative." Ghost's voice crackles over the comms, flat and uncompromising. "You've got a three-man element suppressing the bay exit. If you move, you're dead."
"My daughter is in that wing." I lean out to lay down cover fire, desperate to buy a second of movement.
"I can't get there," Ghost's voice is strained. "I'm pinned at the armory."
I grit my teeth, the choice tearing me apart. If I don't break the suppression here, the whole team dies in this bay. Whisper is ghosting through the shadows near the rafters, trying to get a vertical angle on the shooters, but he can't get a clean shot.
I vent my rage into the optics of my rifle, taking out the shooter pinning the door.
The second the pressure eases, I don't wait for the clear.
I'm in a dead sprint before the thought even finishes.
Torque provides suppressive fire, a wall of lead that keeps the remaining mercs' heads down as I clear the bay.
I hit the residential corridor at a slide. My parents are huddled on the kitchen floor behind the central island, their faces pale and terrified. They're alone. Which means Lily is alone.
Then I hear it. Two sharp cracks in the direction of the safe room.
My heart stops. I reach the threshold of the safe room, and the world narrows to a single frame.
The heavy steel door stands open. I left it locked. I key-coded it myself.
A merc in black tactical gear is in the center of the room. He's adjusting his rifle, pivoting the barrel toward the shadow behind the cot where Lily is screaming—a high, thin sound that rips through my soul.
Below him, slumped against the cinder blocks, is Julianna.
I don't pause. I hit the merc from the side, my weight driving him away from the bed and into the wall.
The sound of his skull meeting the concrete is a dull, wet thud.
I don't feel rage. I just feel a cold, lethal necessity of ending him.
I twist, my hands finding the crown of his head and his chin. One sharp, structural snap.
The man goes limp. I let the body slump to the floor.
The silence hits then. The gunfire from the loading bay has stopped. The comms are quiet, save for the heavy breathing of my team reporting the sector clear.
Thudding boots echo in the hallway. Halo, Whisper, and Fuse appear in the doorway, their movements highly skilled and efficient as they sweep the corners and secure the immediate perimeter. They don't speak; they just work, their eyes taking in the downed merc and the blood on the floor.
"Lily."
"Daddy." She's shaking, her face a mask of snot and terror, Theodore clutched to her chest. "The bad man … Julianna …"
I look down.
Julianna is propped against the base of the wall, her hands clamped over her left side. The fabric of her shirt is turning a heavy, slick black, the wetness spreading over her fingers. She looks small. Fragile.
I'm on my knees before I can draw another breath. I shove her hands aside, my own palms pressing into the wound. The heat of her blood is a physical shock, soaking into my skin.
"Julianna. Stay with me. Look at me."
She gasps, her eyes flickering, trying to find my face through the strobing red.
"Lily?" The question is barely a ghost of a sound, her lips trembling as she forces the name out. "Is she …"
"She's fine. You—you put yourself in front of my daughter."
The realization is a hammer blow. The debt. The strikes. The cold, calculated ledger I've been keeping. It all collapses under the weight of the red staining my hands. Julianna didn't run. She took the bullet meant for my child.
I look at the door, then back at the sink where the emergency panel has been ripped away. She broke out. She didn't escape the house; she hunted down my daughter to protect her. The forethought, the sheer, desperate bravery of it, leaves me hollowed out. She used the only weapon she had—herself.
"Stop talking." I apply more pressure, my heart hammering as she winces. "Doc Summers! In here! Now!"
Skye slides into the room a second later.
"I've got you." My forehead rests against hers, my breath hot on her face. "Stay conscious, Julianna. That's an order. Stay with me."