Page 88 of Sacrifice
I drop, rolling behind a desk as splinters rain down.
Then Hakon’s there, flanking from the bathroom.
Three rounds straight in this guy’s chest, one to the head just to be sure.
The shooter drops, weapon clattering across the floor.
"Clear!" Tor shouts.
"Their equipment's here," I confirm, scanning the surveillance setup.
Multiple monitors showing feeds from around town—the clubhouse, Saga's apartment, the coffee shop where she used to work.
They've been watching us for days, maybe weeks.
Notebooks full of observations, times, patterns.
They know when we change shifts, when we're most vulnerable.
Professional work. These aren't just street soldiers.
Gunfire erupts from the other rooms.
Our teams are hitting the remaining targets.
The sharp crack of rifle fire, the boom of shotguns, screams cut short. Music to my ears.
"Two more in room 4!" someone shouts over comms.
I grab what intel I can—hard drives, notebooks, anything useful—shoving it all into a duffel.
A laptop shows what looks like cartel communications.
A gold mine if we can crack it, and something the Ramirez cartel would pay a lot to get their hands on.
"Emil!" Magnus on the radio. "Got a runner! Northwest corner!"
I'm moving before he finishes talking.
Out the destroyed door, cutting across the parking lot.
There—a figure sprinting toward the tree line.
Even in the darkness, I can see the spider web tattoo on his neck.
The hospital shooter.
Everything else fades.
My arm doesn't hurt anymore.
The world narrows to just him and me and the inevitability of what's coming.
He's fast, fear lending him speed. But I'm motivated.
We crash into the trees, branches tearing at clothes and skin.
He tries to zigzag, but I know these woods.
