Page 189 of Exposé

Snap!

His fingers spasmed. "Ahhh." The blade clattered onto the floor.

"Don’t be such a damn pussy, Brentwood." I gritted my teeth. "Thought you had a spine under all that bullshit." I shifted my elbow, sending it straight into his jaw, the impact sending him staggering into the bar stools, his shoulder slamming against the edge with a sickeningthud.

With an aggravated growl, he charged, barreling into me with sheer force. My heels skidded backward, momentum carrying us out of the kitchen and into the living room. He shoved hard, his grip breaking as I lost balance. The ground disappearedbeneath me—my lower back slammed into the glass coffee table, buckling its four legs, sending me sprawling. Pain flared through my spine, rattling my ribs. I groaned and rolled to my side, my leg snapping out, my boot connecting with his knee, twisting it sideways.

"God-fucking-dammit."

He dropped hard. A strangled gasp tore from his throat as he hit the floor, clutching at his leg, his face contorted in white-hot agony.

I lay on the ground and laughed, my hand holding my ribcage, my breaths rapid. "This is turning out to be way more fun than I gave you credit for," I grunted and pulled myself up to my knees.

He reached out, and I dropped on top of him, pinning him to the floor. His chest heaved, blood smeared across his temple, my forearm dribbling blood onto his shirt. I grabbed his collar and twisted at the throat, causing him to spasm. "You really thought you could sweep that shit under the rug and walk away like nothing happened?"

Brentwood coughed, spitting blood to the side. His grin stayed razor-sharp. "Yeah, I did. And if you had any damn sense, you would've left it there."

I let go, his body slumping as another choked cough ripped from his throat. "Sense? If you had half the sack you pretend to, you wouldn’t be lying here like a boot fresh off the bus, begging for a do-over." I drove my fist into his gut, forcing what little air remained from his lungs.

He folded and wheezed. "No one's begging here except you, boy—just like you begged for your brothers, but they still wound up in body bags. Some Marine you are—couldn’t even bring ‘em home."

I grabbed the rope dangling from the wooden I-beam, the coarse fibers rough against my palms. In one swift motion, Ilooped the makeshift noose around his neck, tightening it until his body jerked in realization.

Brentwood gargled, spit flying from his bloodied lips. "You won’t make it out of this alive." His eyes burned with fury while his body shook.

"Maybe. But you sure as hell won’t be around to find out."

He sucked in a ragged breath, but before he could gather his strength, I pulled.

The rope went taut.

His body lurched upward as his feet kicked, his toes pressed to the ground, enough to keep him conscious.

"Last thing before we're done here,Colonel," I spat, wiping the blood from my forearm, then reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the knife that had been with me from the beginning.

I circled him like a predator, his strangled, desperate gurgles quickening as his body convulsed against the rope. The tendons in his neck bulged, veins darkening as his body fought for oxygen. His fingers clawed at the rope around his neck, his toes finding purchase on the tile. Sweat and fear thickened in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood already spilled.

Pausing at his back, my blade pressed against his spine, and with a slow, deliberate pull, I sliced downward, the fabric splitting with a whisper-soft rip. The shirt peeled away, exposing the ridges of his vertebra, the slick sheen of sweat coating his skin. His muscles trembled beneath the cold kiss of the blade, his body shivering like a cornered animal.

I pressed the tip against his back.

His breath hitched.

Then, I carved.

The steel bit into his flesh, splitting the skin in a slow, controlled stroke. Thick, crimson blood welled, spilling down his sides in rivulets. His body seized, a strangled wail clawingits way up his throat, but the rope choked it off into a wet, sputtering gag.

Baker.

Kuznetsov.

Dalton.

Another name.

A deeper cut.

The blade dragged through skin and sinew, carving letters into living, breathing meat. His back arched, his head snapping back. A bubbling sound gurgled from his lips—half a scream, half a sob.

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