Page 151 of Fractured Allegiance
I don't fall for it.
But he moves anyway. Fast. Lunges for the gun on the floor.
I fire.
The shot hits the wall next to his head—close enough that he flinches, close enough that he knows I could've killed him.
He freezes. Breathing hard. Hand inches from the weapon.
"Don't," I say.
He looks up at me. Blood dripping from his mouth. Something broken in his expression—not fear, but resignation.
"Too late," he mutters. "You're too late."
Then he moves.
Not for the gun. For the door.
I grab him mid-motion, yank him back. He twists, drives his fist into my kidney. I double over but hold on, drag him down.
We hit the floor hard. He fights like a man who's had to unlearn mercy, every strike meant to maim, to end it. I block what I can, take the rest, and slam my fist into his temple once, twice.
He bucks, tries to throw me off. I drive my knee into his ribs—feel them give—and hit him again.
This time, he goes limp.
Not unconscious. But close.
I pin him there, breathing hard, blood in my mouth.
"Why are you watching her?" I ask again, voice raw.
He coughs. Spits blood. Then, barely audible:
"Because someone has to."
I tighten my grip. "That's not an answer."
His eyes flick up to mine—exhausted, resigned. "I got hired. Six months ago. Outfit trying to move into Drazen's territory. They needed intel on his operation."
"And Lydia?"
"She's his fixer. Knows everything—contacts, structure, vulnerabilities. My job was to watch her, figure out if she could be turned or if she was a liability." He winces. "I filed my report three days ago. Said she couldn't be flipped."
My chest tightens. "And?"
"And nothing." He almost laughs. "The outfit got taken down two days ago. A raid in the industrial district. You probably heard about it—multiple arrests, whole network dismantled."
I did hear about it. A coordinated takedown. Large-scale operation.
"So the threat—"
"Gone. Dead. Whoever was planning to move on Lydia doesn't exist anymore." His voice is flat. "My contact went dark. Payments stopped. I tried to reach out—nothing."
"Then why are you still here?"
He looks away. "Because I'm already dead. No identity. No way back. This was all I had left—one last job. And when it disappeared..." He trails off. "I didn't know what else to do. So I kept watching. Out of habit. Out of something."
