Page 141 of Bonds of Obsession

We push into the alley with bullets singing past us as Ambrose’s men try to cut off our escape. The space between the buildings is narrow, barely wide enough for two people shoulder to shoulder, but that works in our favor. Less space makes it harder for them to flank us here.

“Contact!” Quinn shouts, dropping to one knee as she fires at a merc who tried to rush our position. Her shot catches him in the chest and he goes down hard. That’s my fucking wife—deadly accurate even under pressure.

Killian is still moving under his own power, but I can see the pain etched into his face with every step. The way his arm hangs limp tells me his shoulder is even worse than he’s letting on. But that’s Killian. He’d sooner die than slow us down.

Atlas takes point, checking our corners as we push deeper into the warren of back alleys. The sound of boots on pavement echoes behind us, mixing with shouts as Ambrose’s men coordinate their pursuit. These fuckers are organized, moving like a well-oiled machine. Military trained for sure.

“Two more coming in from the south,” Atlas calls out. I spin and squeeze off three rounds, forcing them back into cover.

Quinn’s voice cuts through the chaos: “We’ve got maybe thirty seconds before they box us in completely.” She’s right—I can hear them setting up a perimeter, trying to trap us in this concrete maze. We’re running out of options fast.

“Keep moving,” I order, although we all know standing still means death. We push forward, our footsteps echoing off brick walls as we search for an exit. We’re burning through ammo fast, and these walls around us are starting to feel less like cover and more like a coffin.

That’s when Atlas spots the fire escape above us. It’s our ticket out of this death trap if we can make it up without getting shot.

“Cover me!” Atlas shouts, holstering his weapon and jumping to grab the bottom rung of the fire escape. The rusted metal groans under his weight as he yanks the ladder down. More gunfire erupts, and I return fire while Quinn helps Killian get ready to climb.

“Go!” I command, laying down suppressing fire as Quinn practically pushes Killian up the ladder. His face is a mask of pain, but he doesn’t make a sound as he forces his injured body up.

Atlas goes up next, staying close behind Killian in case his shoulder gives out. The sound of boots pounding pavement gets closer, which means Ambrose’s men are closing in fast. Quinn and I exchange looks, both knowing we’ve got seconds at most.

“Let’s go together,” she says, and we lay down one final barrage of cover fire before scrambling up the ladder. A bullet rips through my jacket, barely missing flesh. Another pings off the metal next to Quinn’s head, but she doesn’t even flinch. All we can do is to keep climbing like death isn’t breathing down our necks.

We hit the first landing and keep going, with metal rattling under our feet as we race up four stories. My lungs are starting to burn, but there’s no time to catch my breath. Not with mercenaries flooding into the alley below us, sending bullets sparking off the fire escape’s frame.

“Keep going,” Atlas calls down from above. “You’re almost here.”

He’s already helping Killian over the roof’s edge, but Quinn and I are two levels below, pushing ourselves to climb faster as shots ring out from the street.

Less than two minutes later, we’re finally scrambling onto the roof. We’ve bought ourselves some breathing room, but I know it won’t last. These fuckers will find a way up here soon enough. Right now we’re like fish in a barrel—exposed on all sides with nowhere else to go.

I do a quick ammo check and curse under my breath. I have three magazines left—not nearly enough for the shit storm that’s brewing. Across the roof, Atlas is scanning the streets below with eyes that miss nothing. All these years of watching each other’s backs means I can read the tension in his shoulders like a book.

“Four more vehicles just pulled up,” he reports, his voice tight. “Black SUVs.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, moving to the edge to see for myself. Sure enough, more of Ambrose’s mercenaries are pouring out of the vehicles and strapping on tactical gear.

Quinn appears at my side, her jaw set in a hard line as she counts heads. “I’m counting fifteen, maybe twenty new hostiles.” She’s trying to sound calm, but I can hear the edge in her voice. This plan went sideways really fucking fast.

A crash echoes from somewhere below. They’re already in the building. Atlas and I share a look that says everything. We’re fucked six ways from Sunday, and we all know it.

“They’ll split up,” Killian says through gritted teeth. “They’ll hit the stairs and elevator to try to push us toward the east edge where their snipers will have clean shots.”

He’s right. I can already see two men setting up with scoped rifles in the building across the street. These bastards aren’t leaving anything to chance this time.

“How long?” Quinn asks, although we can all hear boots thundering up the stairwell now.

“Three minutes. Maybe less.” Atlas checks his weapon again, but we’re all running on fumes here. Between the four of us, we might have enough ammo to take down half of them. But that still leaves too many guns pointed our way.

Killian’s grunt of pain draws my attention as he braces himself against an AC unit. “Give me a hand with this,” he says, nodding toward his fucked-up shoulder. His face is pale in the dim light, but his eyes are sharp as ever, ready to fight even with one arm hanging useless.

“You crazy bastard,” I mutter, but I’m already moving to help. This isn’t the first time we’ve done this dance, and it won’t be the last if we somehow survive the next few minutes.

Atlas takes up a defensive position, giving us cover while Quinn keeps her eyes on the roof access door. The sound of boots on metal stairs is getting closer, and we’ve got maybe two minutes before company arrives.

“On three,” Killian says, positioning himself. His breath comes in sharp bursts, but his voice doesn’t waver. “One?—”

He jerks hard before “two” can leave his mouth, popping his shoulder back into place with a sickening crunch. The son of a bitch doesn’t even cry out—just hisses through his teeth like he’s stubbed his toe instead of resetting a dislocated fucking shoulder.

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