Page 72 of Oath
Before I could ask why, the sound of alarms erupting everywhere drowned out Alphabet’s “one.”
Then all hell broke loose.
Chapter
Twenty-Two
GRACE
The alarms were shrieking—red strobes pulsing across the concrete corridor, splashing over Bones’ skin like blood. He was half-naked, torn to hell, covered in bruises, burns, and cuts that looked like they’d been made just for pain. But he was upright. He was moving.
Barefoot. Shirtless. A wreck.
But moving.
I had one arm around him as we stumbled along the basement hall of the museum, passing crates of artifacts and shattered security doors. My strapless dress stuck to my side with sweat, and every step in these goddamn heels was a death wish. The only weapon I had was the baton O’Rourke had yanked off a guard and shoved into my hand like it was enough.
Ahead, O’Rourke motioned with a closed fist—stop. Then a silent point. Hostiles up front.Thank you, Legend and Voodoo, for the tactical shorthand lesson.
Heavy boots. Movement. At least three or four, probably more, coming at us from the opposite hall. It was hard to count with the screaming alarms.
“Left side—tango team, suppressing fire,” Legend's voice crackled in my ear.
“Two more flanking from service stairs,” AB added.
“Don’t stop moving, Firecracker,” Voodoo said. “They’re trying to trap you.”
Too late.
The hallway behind us erupted far footsteps loud enough to carry past the yowling siren of the alarm. Shouting. Light beams slicing through the shadows.
“Shit!” I hissed, spinning.
Three—no, five—men in black combat gear were charging down the rear corridor toward us. We were pinned. No exits. No cover.
“Take front,” O’Rourke barked, stepping toward the advancing squad. “I’ve got them.”
Before I could say anything, Bones tore himself out of my grip.
“Bones—”
He didn’t look at me. Just pivoted—barefoot on cold concrete—and stared down the oncoming men behind us.
And then hemoved.
Not staggered. Not limped.
He moved like a damn weapon finally unsheathed.
The first man raised a gun—too slow. Bones was already inside his guard, one arm slamming the barrel away as his elbow cracked the guy’s nose. A flash of blood sprayed. He spun the man into the wall like a puppet and drove a knee straight into his spine. He dropped like dead weight.
Two more came in from the sides. Bones ducked under a swinging baton, caught the second man’s wrist andtwisted—a sickening snap, then used the man's own body as a shield. Gunfire erupted. Muzzle flashes lit up the corridor. Bones shoved the shield into the next attacker and disarmed the one behind him with a precise, brutal strike to the throat.
Another one grabbed for him—he pivoted, dropped low, swept the legs, and brought the baton down on the man's head with acracklike a hammer on bone.
I stood frozen, breath caught in my lungs, watching this broken, barefoot man move like something out of a nightmare—precise, fast, merciless. Blood streaked his face and chest, but he didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch.
Heflowedfrom one attacker to the next, never wasting a move. Each strike was lethal, clean, surgical. He wasn’t just surviving.
