Page 87 of Sacrifice
Paint peeling, windows cracked, the smell of decay and desperation.
How many crimes had these walls witnessed? How many more would they see tonight?
Two soft pops in the darkness, barely louder than a cough.
Rio's voice in my earpiece: "Guards are down. Move."
We cross the parking lot in a low rush.
Gravel crunches under boots, but we're committed now.
Room 6's door is reinforced—steel frame, deadbolt, security bar visible through the window.
They're not taking chances.
Hakon approaches with a three-foot pry bar, working the tip between the door and frame.
He throws his weight behind it, the reinforced door fighting back before the lock mechanism tears free from the frame with a screech.
We stack up, weapons ready.
My position puts me first through the door—dangerous with a wounded arm, but I need to be first.
Need to see their faces when death comes calling.
The countdown starts in my head.
Three. Two. One.
I go left, Tor right, weapons up and searching.
The room erupts in chaos—shouts in Spanish, weapons being grabbed, the crash of equipment falling.
My target's reaching for a shotgun propped against the wall.
Time slows.
I see his face clearly—panicked, young, neck tattoo that says "Coyote" in stylized script.
I put two in his chest before he can bring the weapon up.
He drops, crimson spreading across a dirty white wife-beater.
Tor drops another by the window—older, trying to dive through the glass.
The crash is tremendous, body half in, half out, twitching.
But there's a third, diving behind the bed, already shooting.
I pivot, trying to get an angle, but my wounded arm betrays me.
The rifle pulls left, shots going wide, punching holes in cheap drywall.
The shooter pops up, automatic weapon spraying.
I feel the heat of a round pass my ear, another tugging at my vest.
Too close.
