Page 66 of Sinful
Like we practiced this choreography.
She goes left, I go right.
She covers my reload, I cover hers.
We don't speak—don't need to.
Just move and shoot and trust that the other one's handling their sector.
Four down.
Five.
Six.
The man holding Ivar shoves him aside—Ivar hits the floor hard, barely conscious—and raises his weapon toward Helle.
She screams "No!" and puts three rounds in his chest before he can fire.
He drops like a stone.
Seven.
The last one runs—makes it to the doorway before I drop him with a shot to the back.
He falls face-first into the hallway, twitches once, goes still.
Eight.
Silence falls.
Sudden and deafening after the thunder of gunfire.
My ears are ringing.
The room smells like cordite and copper and death.
Helle's standing in the center of the carnage, breathing hard, weapon still raised and shaking in her hands.
"Dad—"
She's moving before I can stop her, dropping to her knees beside Ivar.
He's conscious. Barely. But his eyes open—swollen and bloodshot—and focus on her face.
"Helle," he rasps, voice destroyed from screaming. "You—you shouldn't be here?—"
"Shut up. Save your strength." Her hands are moving over his body, checking wounds, assessing damage.
She's crying and trying not to, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood spatter on her face. "We're getting you out of here. You're going to be okay. You have to be okay."
"Helle—"
"Don't talk. Just—just stay with me." She looks up at me, and her eyes are desperate. "Help me."
I move to her side, holster my weapon, and kneel beside Ivar.
He's in bad shape.
