43. Chapter 43 #2
Mike—my friend, my brother-in-arms—is sprawled on the floor, limbs at unnatural angles, completely still. He has his bulletproof vest on but that didn't save him. Around him spreads a dark pool that can only be blood. So much blood. Too much.
My vision narrows to a pinpoint, the edges going red. Every muscle in my body seizes with primal rage. After pocketing my phone, one hand goes to my holster while the other twitches toward the door handle. I'm ready to fling open the door and unleash hell on the man who did this.
But training kicks in, forcing oxygen back into my lungs when all I want is to roar. If I charge through now, I'll be walking straight into enemy sights. And Mike, if there's even the slightest chance he's still alive, needs me to be smart, not just furious.
What if he's not alive?
The thought cleaves through me like a blade slicing off meat.
I force my muscles to lock in place just as my emotions threaten to send me charging through that door. Bile rises hot and bitter, but I swallow it down, each breath deliberate and measured. Think, don't act. Think, don't act.
Fear wraps its dark tendrils around my gut.
Not just ordinary fear, but the cold, paralyzing kind that comes from seeing someone you care about injured.
I acknowledge it, then push it aside. Fear is only a body sensation.
It's information the brain processes to keep you alive.
What matters isn't the fear itself, but how I channel it.
I press my back against the wall, forcing myself to run through the tactical assessment that's been drilled into me through years of combat. One target visible. Unknown if there are more. Civilian to protect behind me. Wounded ally with unknown status ahead.
What's the best move here?
If I take a chance and barge in, that might be a death sentence. Then who would protect Londyn?
I turn and sprint into her apartment, deadbolting the door behind me. I move to the couch and shove it against the door in one fluid motion. The legs scrape across the floor, too loud in the sudden silence, and I probably left marks, but her life is more important than landlord fees.
Londyn appears from the bedroom hallway, her body half-hidden behind the wall like she's trying to minimize her target profile.
Her eyes are wide with that specific kind of controlled terror I've seen before—the look of someone whose worst fears are materializing but who's refusing to collapse under them.
Her hands tremble slightly, but her voice stays low and steady.
"I think someone is on the fire escape," she whispers, her gaze darting between me and the window. "I saw a shadow moving across the blinds. Could it be a neighbor?"
The question hangs in the air, but there's no hope behind it. We both know better.
Both exits blocked. Fuck.
I unholster my Glock and Londyn gasps, fully understanding that we're in some serious shit.
Metal scrapes against metal. Someone's working on the locks. Mike and I reinforced the door and windows, but that won't keep our enemies out forever.
"Bathroom," I say, the plan forming as I speak. "Now."
Londyn nods but darts to grab her purse before following me down the hall. Always thinking, even in crisis. I love that about her.
Both of us crowd into her tiny bathroom, a space barely big enough for one person, let alone two adults trying not to brush against a shower curtain that might rustle and give us away.
I shut and lock the door. There's nothing to barricade the door, so that flimsy lock is our only defense.
The fluorescent light hums overhead, casting harsh shadows that make Londyn's face look gaunt with fear.
I check my magazine with hands that somehow remain steady despite the storm inside me.
The magazine is full. Fifteen rounds, plus one in the chamber.
There's an extra clip in my holster. I pray that's enough.
It has to be enough. I screw on my suppressor as Londyn observes with rounded eyes.
All the color has drained from her face, making her appear ghostly.
She pulls a can of mace from her purse, her fingers white-knuckled around it. She's terrified but refusing to break. She looks to me, waiting for direction, those brown eyes locked on mine with absolute trust.
Trust.
Should she have trusted me? Because here we are, cornered in a fucking bathroom while Mike bleeds out across the hall.
Here we are because of my fuck-up. Another one to add to the collection.
Mike is down. Mike, who has a pregnant wife waiting for him and two little boys who need their father. Who only stayed these extra days because I couldn't convince him to go home. Who is probably dead because I couldn't keep my hands off Londyn long enough to check my damn messages.
Ten minutes could've saved him. We might've all gotten out.
Or they might've been waiting for us outside.
The guilt isn't just a weight; it's corrosive, eating through my insides. But I can't afford to drown in it. Not now.
Whoever these people are, they knew exactly where to go to disable our security. They knew which apartment held the cameras, knew how to get to our system. How did we miss them watching us? Studying our patterns? Figuring out Londyn's protection was stationed across the hall?
They're too good, too precise. These definitely aren't men some idiot director hired. This attack is from someone who knows what the fuck they're doing.
And now we're trapped.
I take deep breaths, forcing my heart rate to slow. Panic makes people stupid. I can't afford stupid right now.
I won't let Londyn die.
Fucking think, soldier!
At least two hostiles are confirmed. The bathroom offers exactly one advantage—a single point of entry to defend—but that same feature makes it a potential coffin if they decide to smoke us out or bring superior firepower.
We're outmaneuvered, possibly outnumbered, and definitely operating with an information deficit.
I strain to listen for movement in the apartment, trying to gauge their approach. Are these men looking to kidnap Londyn? Or is this pure execution?
Will they care about noise? A gunshot would bring police within minutes. But if they're using suppressors, they could execute us both and be gone before anyone notices. Would they shoot through the door? That depends on their orders.
Men who don't care about getting caught are the most dangerous kind.
My eyes drift to the small bathroom window, the one I'd squeezed through once before to test security.
It's tight, but Londyn's smaller than me.
We're three stories up, but there's a decorative ledge running along the building's facade, about eight inches wide.
Enough to edge along if you don't look down.
If we could reach the balcony two apartments over, we'd have options.
Or… I'll draw their fire so Londyn can escape.
But the clock is ticking. Every scenario carries massive risk: fatal falls, bullet wounds, capture.
Too many unknowns, too many ways this goes wrong. But staying still is just delaying the inevitable. We need movement, surprise, anything to shift the dynamic.
I place my hands on Londyn's shoulders, locking eyes with her. "You need to climb out that window. Use the ledge. Get to a balcony, then to the fire escape. I'll create a diversion."
Her eyes flash wide. "No."
"Londyn—"
"I'm not leaving you," she says as she moves closer and lifts her chin. "Not a goddamn chance. Can't we call the police?"
I can hear footsteps now in the living room—distant but approaching, methodical and unhurried. They know we're cornered.
"The police won't get here in time. You have to go out the window.
It's the only way." My voice hardens like I'm barking out orders as a Sergeant.
"I'm going to attack and clear a path. But I need to know you're safe.
" I grip her shoulders tighter, willing her to understand.
"My job is to keep you safe. That's my sole purpose. Go out the window. Now ."
Her eyes flash. Not with fear but with a fierce, burning certainty. She steps even closer, her body almost flush against mine, refusing to be intimidated by my tone. "I am not leaving you. If they kill you, what's left for me? Nothing."
Time seems to stretch between heartbeats. Outside, the footsteps pause—they're strategizing—but all I can focus on is Londyn's face, inches from mine, unmasked and raw with an emotion that terrifies me more than the armed men outside: complete devotion.
I don't deserve it.
I don't deserve her sacrifice.
An ache sparks deep in the place where body and mind meet the soul. My voice drops to barely a whisper, the hardness evaporating beneath something far more vulnerable. "What are you saying?"
"I've spent my entire life alone, Sean. Even in Hollywood, surrounded by people, I was so alone.
" She takes my hand, pressing it against her heart.
"I was invisible for six years because I thought that was the only way to survive.
But that's not living. You, us… this is living. You gave that back to me."
I stare at her, unable to process what she's saying. The world has narrowed to just this—her face, her heartbeat under my palm, the impossible weight of her words. Outside, the threat continues to circle, but in here, something dangerous has already happened.
"I'm not running away this time," she says. "If this is how my story ends, fine. But it ends with you."
"You're willing to go out together?" The question sounds incredulous even to my own ears.
She nods once. "Together."
Something in me breaks open. I've spent my entire life fighting alone and carrying the heavy toll of others' safety on my shoulders like it was mine alone to bear. Outside of the military, no one has ever stood beside me, shoulder to shoulder, ready to face whatever comes without flinching.
Not ever like this.
This woman—this incredible, stubborn, brave woman—is choosing to stand with me at what might be the end. Not because she has to, but because she wants to.
But the soldier in me can't accept it. Won't accept it. I step back, my hand sliding away from her heart, leaving a cold emptiness where warmth had been.
I'm a soldier. This is how it was always going to end for me. But she deserves to go on and have a better life.
"No, Londyn. If you die, I've failed. Everything I've sworn, everything I've—"
"It's not your choice," she cuts in. "It's mine. And I choose you. I choose you over everything."
There's a crash and scraping from the bedroom. We both flinch. Heavy boots thud against hardwood. Whoever was outside must've breached the bedroom window. Another set of boots is coming down the hallway.
No. Two sets in the hallway.
There may be three enemies approaching.
We're out of time.
I'm desperate now. I grab Londyn's shoulders, physically trying to push her toward the window. "Out. Now, Londyn. I won't let you give up your life for me."
She fights against my grip, not with panic but with deliberate resistance, pressing closer instead of backing toward the window. Her eyes never leave mine, even as death approaches inch by inch.
"I don't want a life without you," she whispers fiercely. "Why don't you understand that?"
But I do understand. God help me, I understand perfectly. The truth of it burns in my chest, simultaneously the most painful and beautiful realization I've ever had: I feel exactly the same way.
A life without her isn't a life at all.
She's my purpose.
Footsteps pause just outside the bathroom door.
Londyn covers her mouth and neither of us dares to breathe. They'll be in here within seconds.
I wish Londyn had made a different choice, one that would keep her breathing and alive in this world, even if I couldn't be in it with her.
With one hand, I reach over to intertwine her fingers with mine. With the other, I raise my gun toward the bathroom door.
Together, then.