Page 150 of Fractured Allegiance
I pull out the small toolkit I keep in my jacket. Multitool, penlight, a spare magnet I lifted from a hardware store months ago for situations exactly like this.
I hold the spare magnet against the sensor on the doorframe—keeping the circuit closed—then carefully pry the door open a few inches.
No sound. No movement.
The alarm still thinks the door is shut.
I slip the magnet into place with electrical tape, securing it so the sensor stays satisfied, then push the door open fully.
Still nothing.
Good.
I step inside.
The apartment is a single room. Half-split with crates and blacked-out windows. No furniture except a cot, a desk, and a cracked sink with blood already in it.
He’s here.
I hear him shift before I see him, crouched behind a beam, pistol out, eyes red-rimmed and twitching.
Kellan Marrow.
Very much alive.
He sees me the same moment I see him.
For half a second, neither of us moves.
Then he goes for his gun.
I'm faster—barely. I close the distance before he clears leather, slamming into him and driving us both into the wall. His weapon hits the floor and skitters away.
He doesn't hesitate. Drives an elbow into my ribs—hard, precise, the kind of strike that comes from the same training I had. I feel something crack.
I shove him back and swing. He blocks it, counters with a palm strike to my jaw that snaps my head sideways.
We're the same. Same training. Same instincts. Same muscle memory drilled into us until it became reflex.
Which means this is going to be ugly.
He comes at me low, tries to sweep my legs. I shift my weight, knee him in the shoulder as he drops. He grunts but recovers fast—too fast—and catches my arm, twisting it into a joint lock.
Pain shoots up my shoulder. I slam my heel down on his instep, hard enough to feel bones give. He releases me with a hiss and I spin, catching him across the jaw with my elbow.
He staggers but doesn't fall.
Blood on his lip now. Eyes sharp. Calculating.
"You don't know what you're doing," he says, voice rough.
"I know you're watching her." I pull my gun, aim it at his chest. "I know you left that photo. And I know you're supposed to be dead."
He laughs—low, bitter. "You think pointing a gun at me changes anything?"
"Your name," I say. "Your last clearance file. Why the fuck are you watching her?"
He doesn't answer. Just shifts his weight slightly, eyes flicking to something behind me—a tell, a distraction.
