Page 67 of Fractured Allegiance
I shoot once, then twice, in quick succession.
He drops.
Smoke’s rising now, thick and intentional. Someone came prepared for this to go bad. A flare ignites behind the crate. Either they rigged it, or someone from Drazen’s crew is playing both sides.
I slide into the cover of a rusted-out metal shelf and scan through the smoke.
Three enemies down.
One unaccounted for.
And Lydia?
Still crouched. Back to the beam. Eyes wide but focused. The red velvet has streaks of black dust on it now. One strap has fallen.
She looks like chaos dressed in blood.
But she’s not panicking.
She’s calculating.
I move around the back of the crate, staying in Drazen’s line of sight just enough to not disappear, but far enough to give myself room.
Bishop is on the ground, gun jammed. Renzo’s bleeding, swearing in three languages. Drazen’s barking orders and ducking behind another crate like he’s some trench general, but he’s not pulling the trigger.
Dom, to his credit, is covering Lydia.
But barely.
One of the Serbs — the last one — emerges from the smoke behind a half-wall of scrap metal.
He’s got eyes on Lydia.
He’s moving fast.
And no one else sees it.
Not Drazen.
Not Dom.
Just me.
I move in.
Quiet. Fast. Surgical.
My boots don’t echo. My arm doesn’t shake. I get close enough to see the man’s pulse in his throat.
His gun’s raised.
Finger on the trigger.
He doesn’t get the chance.
I grab the back of his collar, wrench him off balance, slam him into the support pillar with a dull crack. The gun clatters. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Just a low rasp.
I press the muzzle to his ribs.
