Page 113 of Reaper
I'm on him before he can complete the pivot, my arm snaking around his throat in a chokehold. He struggles for maybe five seconds before the pressure on his arteries cuts the flow of blood to his brain and he goes limp. I lower him to the ground as quietly as possible and take his rifle.”
"Nice work," Conrad murmurs.
“It’s like I’ve done this before.”
Conrad snorts, and I shake my head.
“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean to be an asshole. I’m just… fuck…”
My words trail off into silence, which beats the sob that was sitting in my throat, ready to pounce.
We're almost to the main building now. It's bigger than the storage units, with actual windows instead of just rolling doors. Light spills from several of them, casting rectangular patches of yellow on the asphalt.
That's when I hear it.
A scream. Raw, agonized, barely human.
My blood turns to ice water in my veins. I know that voice. I've heard it whisper my name in the dark, heard it laugh at my terrible jokes, heard it beg me not to leave.
Reaper.
The sound cuts through me like broken glass, shredding every rational thought in my head. All my training, all my tactical planning, all my careful control — it evaporates in an instant. There's only rage and sorrow.
I charge forward.
Conrad grabs my arm, his grip firm but not painful. "Adriana, wait—"
I shake him off and keep moving, but his voice cuts through the red haze clouding my vision.
"You go in there like this, you'll get him killed. And yourself."
I stop. My chest is heaving, my hands trembling with the need to tear this whole place apart with my bare hands. Another scream echoes from the building, weaker this time, and I bite down on my tongue hard enough to taste blood.
He's right. I know he's right. But hearing Reaper in that kind of pain is like having someone reach inside my chest and twist my heart until it's ready to burst.
"I can't — " I start, then swallow the words. Can't what? Can't listen to him suffer? Can't be tactical when the man I love is being tortured fifty yards away? Can't keep my shit together when it matters most?
"Yes, you can," Conrad says, reading my face in the dim light. "You're tougher than this. I've seen you work."
I take a shaky breath, then another. Force myself to think like the investigator I am instead of the woman whose world is being ripped apart. The building has three visible windows with lights on inside. Two on this side, one around the corner. Multiple entry points mean multiple escape routes, which Volkov would want. But it also means we can choose our angle of attack.
"The window on the left," I whisper. "It's darker. Probably empty."
Conrad nods. "I'll boost you up. You get inside, find them, assess the situation. I'll circle around and come in from the front."
"What if — "
"No ‘what-ifs.’ We do this clean and fast, or we don't do it at all."
Another explosion rocks the compound, closer this time. Mayhem's working his way toward us, drawing more guards away from the main building. The gunfire is sporadic now, which either means Diesel and Mayhem have the situation under control, or they're both dead.
I choose to believe the former. I have to.
We move to the window. Conrad laces his fingers together, creating a step. I shift the grip on my new rifle and put my foot in his hands, letting him boost me until I can grab the windowsill. The glass is dirty, but I can see through it into what looks like an office. Empty desk, filing cabinet, no movement.
The window is unlocked. Of course, it is. Who breaks into a Russian mob torture facility?
Besides me, apparently.
