Page 15 of My Masked Stalker
My leg screams with every step, wet heat dripping down into my boot, but I keep moving, rifle tucked to my shoulder. Another guard rounds the corner of a shipping crate. I don’t hesitate. Double tap—chest, head. He drops like a puppet with its strings cut.
“Two more on your six!” Ethan’s warning is a half-second late. The flash of bullets being fired in my direction burns my vision, rounds sparking off the steel column beside me. I duck,spin, fire. One body jerks back, the other lunges closer, knife in hand.
He’s fast, but I’m faster. I swing the SASS up like a club, the stock cracking into his temple with a sickening crunch. He folds, twitching, and I don’t wait to confirm he’s down.
“Cross, talk to me, dammit!” Ethan’s voice cracks. “You’re bleeding out, I can see it on thermal. You need to get the fuck out of there!”
“No shit,” I growl, slamming my shoulder into the dock door. It gives way with a screech of rusted hinges. Cold salt air slams into me, briny and sharp.
For half a second, I think I’ve made it.
Then headlights flare across the dock. Another SUV with blacked-out windows, coming straight at me.
“South pier!” Ethan barks. “Go now! Van’s inbound, I’ll cut you off at the loading bay. Move!”
I limp toward the pier, my rifle swinging on its strap against my chest. Every step is like fire in my thigh, blood leaking faster than I can clamp it with my gloved fingers. Another shot whines past my ear, close enough I feel the heat of it.
I duck behind a stack of pallets as the SUV skids sideways, doors opening. More Black Ash men spill out, guns leveled. My mag is almost dry. My vision narrows to a tunnel.
“Ethan—”
“Thirty seconds!” he shouts. “Hold!”
Thirty seconds in a gunfight might as well be a fucking eternity.
Emily’s smile flashes through my head. I’ve never seen it aimed at me, though. I don’t want to die before that happens.
Determined, I slam another round into the chamber, lean out, and fire. One guard goes down. I switch to my Glock again, pulling it one-handed from my thigh holster. My shots are quickand dirty. An assailant drops, another staggers. But more are coming. Fuck, there’s always more.
The world tilts for a second as my vision swims from blood loss, and my knee buckles. I brace against the pallet, dragging in air.
And then salvation roars around the corner.
The matte-black tactical van barrels down the dock, engine growling like a beast. The side door slides open before the van is fully stopped, Ethan hanging out with a suppressed MP7 in his hands. His pale face is tight with terror and fury as he sprays fire at the Syndicate men.
“Get in!”
I don’t think, I move. Limping, stumbling, firing until my Glock clicks empty. I hurl myself at the van, half-falling into the open door as Ethan yanks me inside. The metal floor rattles under my knees, my blood smearing dark streaks across it. I collapse against the wall, chest heaving, the pain in my leg finally cutting through the adrenaline.
The door slams shut. Tires screech. Ethan must be back at the wheel. Bullets hammer the van’s reinforced plating.
I must have blacked out, because when I open my eyes next, the van is at a standstill, there’s no more gunfire, and Ethan is back by my side.
“Jesus Christ, Killian,” he gasps, shoving a pressure bandage hard against my thigh. I snarl at the white-hot pain, grabbing a strap to keep from passing out again.
“Viktor—” I grind out.
“They fucking knew. They knew about us. Black Ash has been watching us as much as we’ve been watching them.”
I close my eyes, head thumping against the van wall. My ears are still ringing, and my body aches. But somewhere in the back of my mind, all I can think about is Emily.
If they know about me, they could know about her. She could be in danger.
“We’re going to Damien,” Ethan says, his voice grim now, but steady with the kind of calm that comes when panic burns off. “He’ll patch you up before you bleed out.”
I grunt, darkness edging my vision again. This time, I open my eyes to Damien’s steadying sea-blue gaze.
“Welcome back, sleeping beauty,” he murmurs before his gaze returns to the suturing he’s finishing up on my leg. He must’ve shot me up with something because it’s blissfully painless. “Why are you still getting shot at, brother? We’re far from the sandbox. Don’t tell me you missed it that much.”
