Page 110 of Knight

“Bishop?”

His head snaps up at my voice, but he doesn’t respond. He just moves, rounding the front of the car.

The back door opens, and Rook steps out. They meet near the passenger side, close enough for me to see it—their hands.

Covered with something dark … Wet.

My stomach turns so violently I think I might be sick.

Something has gone horribly wrong.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Knight

The first shotrips into my side, hot and searing. The impact forces the air from my lungs, every nerve screaming in protest. I stagger, clutching the wound, warmth spreading beneath my fingers as blood pools.

Before I can recover, a second bullet punches into my shoulder, sending me crashing into a server rack. My skull collides with unforgiving metal, stars bursting behind my eyes. Agony pulses in relentless waves, and I have to fight to stay focused.

Assess. Adapt. Survive.

Blood streams from both wounds, pooling beneath me and soaking my shirt. My fingers respond when I test them, which means no paralysis. My breathing is shallow and sharp, but I force air into my lungs. No major arteries hit, but the blood loss will be a problem soon. The backup gun at my ankle becomes my target.

Focus, Knight.

Sullivan’s expression darkens, his jaw tightening as he ducks behind a console to avoid the gunfire tearing through the room. The corrupted servers flicker in his peripheral vision, a grim reminder that his empire is unraveling. Behind me, the virusdevours their system, years of stolen research collapsing into chaos.

Gunfire tears through the air, bullets sparking off steel and embedding into the walls. Smoke and the acrid tang of burning circuits fill my lungs. My brothers are a blur of motion, tearing through Sullivan’s security team with unrelenting force. The guards fight back, their shots wild but dangerous, forcing Rook and Bishop into cover as they dismantle the resistance one by one. The chaos is deafening, each shot reverberating through my skull. My vision wavers, but I force myself to stay conscious. Passing out isn’t an option.

Sullivan ducks lower behind the console, barking orders at his remaining guards.

“Hold them back!” he shouts over the cacophony. “I want them pinned down!”

One guard moves closer, firing blind toward Rook’s position, but Bishop’s shot takes him down before he can reposition. The remaining security scatter, their confidence faltering as the tide turns against them. Sullivan’s sneer falters as well, though he tries to mask it with anger.

“This didn’t have to happen. You could have been part of something extraordinary! Your talents—wasted on this rebellion!”

"Still using ten words when two would do." Blood pools in my mouth, and I spit it out while my hand inches toward the backup gun at my ankle, every motion lighting fresh fires in my side and shoulder.

"Such disdain. You’ve always had a knack for efficiency and detachment. Perfect for this kind of work. Machines over people. Your priorities were always clear.”

“You always talk about priorities,” I rasp, my voice wet with blood. “Was Victor just another tool? Michael Porter? How many lives have you burned through for this?”

Sullivan’s jaw tightens, the corporate mask cracking. “Progress requires difficult choices. Their work will resonate far beyond their lives. That’s the price of greatness.”

“And now their work is dust.”

The flash of anger in his eyes cuts through the chaos as he gestures at the failing systems.

"Temporary setbacks! We have redundancies. Backups. And soon, we’ll have you."

He steps from behind the console, gun raised, every motion steady despite the chaos tearing through the room. The barrel points directly at me, his lips curling into a sneer.

"Maybe I’ll start with your legs." His voice is low and vicious. "You won’t be running anywhere."

My pulse stutters as his gun levels at me. The room blurs at the edges, dizziness clawing at my focus, and the copper tang of blood fills my mouth. My breath rasps, shallow and wet, each second threatening to drag me under.

The crack of a gunshot pierces the chaos, sharp and deafening, and I brace myself waiting for a new explosion of pain. When it doesn’t come, I frown, watching as Sullivan jerks forward, his expression shifting from triumph to shock.

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