Page 87 of Imperfect Desires

Boom.

The second the light hits, I move.

I’m on them before they recover—Glock in one hand, blade in the other.

The first takes a round to the chest. Kevlar slows it, but the second shot pierces his throat. Blood erupts. He collapses, twitching.

The next one recovers faster—he swings at me with a collapsible baton. I parry with my blade, duck low, and drive the hilt into his solar plexus. He doubles, and I grab him by the back of the neck and slam him into the wall so hard the plaster cracks.

One left.

We circle each other.

This one’s smart. Skilled. I see it in his stance, the way he doesn’t rush. He’s not just muscle—he’s trained.

He lunges, and we clash. It’s fast. Brutal. Blade to blade. He scores a shallow cut across my side, but I barely feel it. I counter with a kick to his knee, and when he falters, I drive my knife up into the gap between his chest plate and shoulder. He grunts and swings wild. I twist the blade, yank it free, and bury it in his neck. I watch in satisfaction as he gurgles and falls. My chest rises and falls fast. My vision sharpens like glass. Around me, Anton and the rest of the team are finishing off what remains.

I stand amidst the wreckage—broken bodies, shattered weapons, and the copper scent of blood thick in the air.

This is what I was made for. Not politics. Not power.

This.

Killing to protect what’s mine.

A guard tries to crawl away down the hall. I step on his spine and fire one shot into the back of his skull.

Anton limps up beside me, blood streaked across his face.

“You good?” I ask.

He nods. “Clear. Back hallway should lead to the reinforced door.”

The door.

She’s behind it.

I holster my weapons and grab a breaching charge from my bag.

The hallway is long, dimly lit, and heavy with silence.

Every step echoes louder than it should, each footfall a countdown to the moment I’ve been bleeding toward.

At the end stands the door—steel-reinforced, bolted, thicker than any we’ve come across so far.

That’s how I know.

She’s in there.

I stop a few feet from it. My chest heaves, not from exertion, but from the weight of everything I’m about to face. The fear of what I might see. The fury of what she’s endured.

Anton appears at my side, breathing hard. “This the one?”

I nod once.

He stays back without a word. He knows this part belongs to me.

I reach into my gear bag, hands steady despite the storm inside me, and pull out a breaching charge—compact, high-yield, perfect for this kind of job.

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