44. Chapter 44
SEAN
"GET BEHIND ME," I TELL Londyn. There's no time for me to pull off my bulletproof vest and put it on her, so I'll have to be her shield.
"No." The word is small but lands with the weight of mountains. Her voice doesn't waver, doesn't crack. "I'm done hiding. If this is where it ends, I'm facing it."
She steps beside me, shoulders squared, chin lifted like she's about to walk onto a stage rather than face armed killers.
There's a fire in her eyes. She's reached some invisible line within herself and decided, here and now, to cross it.
"I'm tired of cowering. If I die today, I die fighting. With you."
The transformation steals my breath. This woman—who flinched at strangers' glances, who mapped escape routes through every room, who lived half her life in shadows—is now standing shoulder to shoulder with me facing death like it's just another fucking Tuesday.
I don't deserve this level of courage, this raw and perfect trust. But she's giving it to me.
"Fuck, I love you." My free hand catches the back of her neck, pulling her to me with an urgency that borders on desperation. Our mouths crash together. But it's not a goodbye kiss. I refuse to let this be our goodbye.
We're going to survive. We're going to wake up beside each other tomorrow, and it'll be a new day.
I am not fucking saying goodbye.
When we break apart, both breathing hard in the tiny space between us, she doesn't move away or soften. Just squares her stance, lifts the mace to eye level, and gives me a small nod.
Ready.
Footsteps move just outside the door. The floorboards creak. The bastards aren't even trying to be stealthy.
I position my Glock, both hands steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system.
Each breath has a forced slowness. Whatever response my body is trying to have, my mind needs to remain strong and in control.
I've been in enough firefights to know how this goes.
They'll come in fast. Our only advantage is the space and the element of surprise; they can't know exactly where we're positioned.
The doorknob turns as someone tests the lock.
Londyn's breath hitches beside me, but her arm remains steady, the mace positioned like she's done this a thousand times. Christ, she's something else.
I motion with my head, wanting her to go around to the other side of the door. Our attacker needs to see me first. She understands and gets into position.
The next heartbeat, the door crashes inward, splintering around the doorframe. A man appears. I see a flash of a bulletproof vest hidden under a suit jacket and steady male hand gripping a gun. His eyes lock with mine for a fraction of a second before Londyn lunges forward.
The mace hisses as she sprays it directly into his face.
He jerks away, a startled shout strangled in his throat as his hands fly up instinctively.
I don't hesitate. My finger squeezes the trigger twice in rapid succession.
The shots are deafening in the small space, even with a suppressor to dampen sound.
I hit my mark.
The man staggers backward as blood pours from the hole at his neck. His weapon clatters to the floor first as he struggles to breathe, then his knees buckle. He collapses to the side, hitting Londyn's dresser on the way down.
Londyn gasps and turns her head away from the man. I motion at her to get behind the open door. She moves quickly, just a second before a bullet zips through the opening and shatters the bathroom mirror in an explosion of silver fragments.
That wasn't a warning shot. That was meant to kill.
Now I have vital information: they're not here to capture Londyn.
Also, the whispered hiss of the attacker's suppressor was barely audible. It's professional-grade equipment, not some street-level hardware. That's actually good news. They're trying to keep this quiet, which means they don't want to alert the neighbors. They care about getting out clean.
More rounds punch through the doorway as another attacker blindly fires from cover, trying to flush us out. Plaster and wood splinter from the doorframe, a fragment slicing across my neck like a razor. The sting is distant.
Londyn remains pressed against the wall behind the door. I'm on the opposite side, both of us out of the direct fire line unless they decide to start shooting through the walls. The bathroom's cheap drywall wouldn't provide much resistance.
Another shot cracks through the air wild and unfocused, a technique meant to intimidate us. Also good news. They're not willing to charge in and sacrifice themselves to complete the mission.
That hesitation is their weakness. And our advantage.
I squeeze off a return shot toward the doorway, not expecting to hit anything but hoping to buy me a few seconds to think. The round hits a wall with a dull thud.
The bullets stop and there's only the sound of rapid breathing. I'm trying to figure out if I have any leverage for an attack, when a voice cuts through the quiet. It's deep, measured, entirely devoid of fear or urgency. It feels like having ice water injected directly into my veins.
"I guarantee we have more bullets than you."
That voice.
It's impossible…
I've heard it before, seen the man before, in a dimly lit Chicago warehouse, where I stood in the shadows pretending to be someone I wasn't. It's a voice that makes hardened criminals tremble and bite their tongues.
Victor.
I'm so shocked and confused I nearly lose my grip on my weapon. Victor is here? Here . In Manhattan. Personally overseeing whatever this is.
It doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense. How does a Hollywood director connect to one of Chicago's most dangerous criminals? How does Londyn fit into any of this?
My gaze flicks to Londyn, whose face has gone ashen. Her eyes are wide with confusion; she doesn't recognize the voice. She has no idea what kind of evil son of a bitch is standing in her bedroom.
I wet my cracked lips. "I only need a few to hit my target," I call back, my voice steady so as not to reveal how much my heart is hammering.
The darkness in the apartment shifts, and I can sense rather than see more bodies positioning themselves. Multiple men are filling Londyn's bedroom.
Fuck, how do I get her out of this?
I glance at the bathroom window. It's no longer an option because it's directly across from the open doorway.
"You can take out my men, but I have more on standby.
" The voice doesn't rise, doesn't need to.
It commands attention through its very stillness.
"Regardless, I'd rather not waste resources.
Training replacements is… inefficient. I'll give you a choice.
We could come in there. You'll take out one, maybe two of my men before we gun you both down.
Messy. Wasteful." He pauses, letting the scenario sink in.
"Or you can have a clean, quick death. Professional courtesy. "
Another pause, weighted with absolute certainty.
"But you must know you won't escape."
My mind races, calculating angles, weapons, positions. We're in a box with one door, one tiny window. Even if I created a diversion, Londyn wouldn't make it through that window fast enough. And it sounds like there might be men waiting on the street below.
My phone is heavy in my pocket and I debate calling the police. I could possibly buy enough time for them to get here, but I know as soon as sirens cut the air, our attackers would rush in to finish us before disappearing into the city.
I glance at Londyn, expecting to see panic, but what I find is worse. Her eyes are wide but eerily clear, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. Without a word, she sets the mace down on the edge of the sink with a soft, final click.
"Can we be together at the end?" she calls out.
No.
No, this isn't the end.
It can't be. I won't let it.
I shake my head as I realize what she's doing.
"Sure," comes the reply, Victor's tone almost bored. "But I have a meeting, so let's get this done."
I shake my head frantically, my free hand grabbing for her arm. But her eyes, those beautiful eyes that somehow became the center of my universe, are firm with resolve. I've seen that look before, in soldiers who've made peace with what comes next.
"Gun first," the voice commands.
My mind scrambles for options, for anything. Fuck, I won't let it end like this! Not when my life has finally started to mean something beyond just surviving, beyond protecting strangers for a paycheck. Not when I've found the one person who fills the emptiness and gives me hope for the future.
I can't fail like this. I can't fail Londyn.
I have to protect her.
Londyn nudges me gently, her fingers brushing mine. The look she gives me is soft but determined—a strange, terrible serenity has settled over her features.
I shake my head again, so she whispers, "Please. I just don't want it to be violent. I want us to hold each other and—" Her words drown in a sob.
Before I can stop her, she's already moving, stepping into the open doorway. She's now in the line of fire. Her hands are raised slightly, empty palms forward. Every instinct screams at me to pull her back, to shield her, to keep fighting. But something in the quiet dignity of her stance stops me.
My fingers loosen around my weapon. I set it on the floor.
This isn't goodbye.
This isn't goodbye.
This isn't goodbye.
With a gentle kick, I send the gun sliding across the bathroom tile into the bedroom.
I won't say goodbye to her.
I just need to fucking think.
I need to get her out of this.
Our fingers intertwine. She squeezes once, and somehow she's the one leading me toward the door. Her spine is straight, her chin lifted, her steps even. I've seen Marines, men with years of combat training, face death with less composure than this woman beside me.