Page 45 of Avenging Jessie
Spence
Hastings’smirk didn’t waver, but the way his fingers flexed on the pistol told Spence he was already recalculating.
“I heard you enjoy the dramatic entrance, Stirling,” he drawled. “Tell me—did you practice that little speech in the mirror, or did it just come to you while you were babysitting your trigger-happy swan?”
Jessie stiffened at the jab. She didn’t look at Spence, but he caught the subtle shift in her posture—shoulders loose, chin dipped, back straight and ready to pounce.
Spence ignored the bait and nodded toward the hackers, still hammering frantically at their keyboards as error messages multiplied across their screens. “Call them off, Hastings. Before I decide, this virus gets hungrier.”
Hastings gave a lazy shrug. “You think I care about them? They’re replaceable. Always have been.” His gaze slid to Jessie, hard and calculating. “She’s the interesting one. Pretty, dangerous, and if I’m gauging that killer look in her eyes, still loyal enough to throw herself in front of you. I wonder what it would take to break that.”
Spence’s jaw locked. “Don’t test me.”
“Oh, I think I will.” Hastings shifted his weight just enough to make every muscle in Spence’s back coil tight. “Let’s see how dirty you want to fight.”
Spence took a slow step forward, angling himself so Hastings had to pivot to keep the gun lined up. “You know what you are, Hastings? You’re a petty ex-Agency employee with a bruised ego. Brewer’s playing on the world stage, and you’re down here in the basement like some wannabe Bond villain, running side hustles and nursing your grudge against Langley.”
Hastings’ eyes narrowed, the muscle in his jaw twitching.
“You’re not even in his league,” Spence pressed. “Brewer wants to control the future. You?” He let the word hang like a bad smell. “You’re just hoping the Agency notices you long enough to admit they were wrong about you. Spoiler alert—they weren’t. You were never good enough for anything more than running a few noncritical missions. Hell, you weren’t even good enough to work solo.”
Hastings’ smirk faltered, replaced by something harder, uglier.
“Does Brewer even know about this side gig?” Spence asked, tilting his head toward the hackers. “Or are you hoping you can sell the intel before he finds out? Guess we’ll see who kills you first.”
That did it. The flash of rage in Hastings’ eyes came with a sharp, deliberate motion—he swung the gun away from Jessie and leveled both weapons square at Spence’s chest. Walked toward him.
Just like Spence wanted.
Jessie moved like lightning. She kicked the leg of the chair next to her, sending it toppling with a crash. The noise ricocheted around the server room, pulling Hastings’ aim just a fraction off-center.
Spence lunged.
The guns went off—loud, concussive, close enough to make his ears ring. The hackers shrieked, diving under their table.
Pain exploded through his right hand as his palm smacked against the barrel in mid-grapple, but he kept driving forward, momentum carrying both men into the edge of a server rack.
The server rack shuddered from the impact, plastic casing cracking as metal screamed. Spence’s shoulder took the brunt. Hastings fought like a man possessed.
One gun clattered to the floor. Spence went for it, but Hastings slammed a forearm across his throat, driving him back against the rack.
Pain flared white-hot along his windpipe. He jerked his knee up, catching Hastings in the thigh, and shoved back hard enough to break the chokehold. Hastings retaliated with a wild right hook, and Spence ducked. The blow glanced off the side of his skull, but still rattled his teeth.
He swung with his right hand, aiming for Hastings’ jaw. The connection was hard enough to ring his bell. The other gun dropped, but something popped in Spence’s wrist. His fingers went numb, a sick heat radiating up into his forearm. Agony ripped from wrist to fingertip.
Hastings saw it.
He caught Spence’s right hand in both of his and wrenched it back at an angle hands weren’t meant to go. Bone grated—a sharp, tearing sensation shot through the tendons.
Spence’s vision narrowed to a tunnel. He snarled through the pain, shifted his weight, and slammed his left fist into Hastings’ ribs—once, twice—until the other man’s grip loosened.
Jessie was shouting something—his name, maybe—but the roar of blood in his ears made it sound far away.
The guns were still on the floor; one had been kicked closer to Jessie during the scuffle. Hastings realized it at the same time Spence did.
Both men lunged.
Jessie beat them both. One hard kick sent the gun skittering under the hacker table. Hastings swore, lunging after it.
