Page 157 of Sins of the Hidden

A man in tactical gear filled the doorway like a shadow that had come to life, stance wide, weapon already drawn. "Don't fucking move!" His voice carried authority and barely controlled violence. "Mr. Moxley, we have intruders in the?—"

I was across the room before his finger could twitch on the radio.

The guard's training kicked in—his knife emerging from its sheath in one fluid motion, air parting with a whistle as the blade sliced toward my throat. I twisted, but not fast enough. We collided with enough force to splinter the bookcase behind us, volumes raining down as his shoulder drove me backward. His momentum carried us both into the desk, glass cracking beneath our weight. The blade found my side, slipping between ribs, sinking deep enough to scrape bone. Cold steel carved a path through flesh, blood immediately soaking my shirt, running hot down my hip.

I felt the impact but not the cut—my body registering damage without the accompanying pain. My shirt turned dark withwetness, sticky against my skin as I drove forward into him instead of away.

His eyes widened, pupils dilating with shock when I didn't drop. Confusion flashed across his face—that crucial half-second hesitation when someone realized I wasn't human.

If I knew how to smile, I would at his pathetic response.

"What the fu?—"

I seized that moment of disbelief, lunging toward him instead of retreating. My forehead connected with the bridge of his nose, cartilage giving way with a wet crunch that echoed in the small space. Blood erupted between us like a geyser, painting both our faces in violent strokes. I grabbed his wrist, twisting until tendons strained and bones ground together. The knife remained lodged in my side, handle protruding from my ribs as I spun him, using his own momentum against him.

The guard's knee shot up toward my groin, a desperate countermove that would have doubled most men over. I caught his leg, lifting until his balance failed. We crashed into the wall, plaster cracking under the impact. His elbow caught me across the temple, vision sparking white for an instant before I drove my palm up under his jaw. His teeth clicked together, biting through his own tongue.

I seized the distraction, driving my elbow into his exposed throat with enough force to crush his windpipe. Something gave beneath the blow—soft tissue collapsing, sending him reeling backward. His fingers clawed desperately at his neck, fighting for air that wouldn't come. Panicked sounds escaped him—wet, desperate gurgles as he dropped to his knees. His eyes bulged, blood vessels bursting as oxygen deprivation turned his face purple. His hands reached for me even as his body surrendered, fingers grasping at empty air.

The guard collapsed forward, his weight carrying him face-first into the hardwood with a wet thud.

Chet whistled low. "Jesus Christ."

I yanked the knife from my side, blood pouring freely down my leg. No pain, just wetness and the distant awareness of damage. Law stared, face drained of color. "V, you're?—"

"Fine." I stepped over the body, heading toward the door. "We need to move."

Law examined the corpse with the detached calculation of someone who'd cleaned up enough messes to know what came next. "Can't leave him here. Too much evidence." His gaze swept the room, searching for solutions. "We need to get him out of the house."

"Living room," I decided. "More space to work."

They hauled the dead guard between them, Chet taking the shoulders while Law grabbed the feet. Carrying him as we maneuvered down the hallway.

The living room sprawled before us—a showcase of wealth that reeked of insecurity. Leather furniture arranged in perfect symmetry, original artwork hanging at precisely calculated intervals, crystal decanters catching light from recessed fixtures. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, offering an unobstructed view of meticulously landscaped grounds. Perfect escape route.

"What are we gonna do with him?" Chet asked, dropping the guard's shoulders with a grunt. The body hit the expensive rug with a dull thump.

Law kept his distance, eyeing the corpse with the same calculation he'd use on any legal problem. "Leave him. Make it look like a break-in gone wrong." His gaze swept the room, cataloging what needed to be disturbed. "We need to get the hell out of here before someone realizes the comms are down."

"Should we stage it better?" Chet gestured at the relatively undisturbed room. "Looks too clean for a robbery."

"No time," Law's jaw tightened. "We've been here too long already."

Chet was already moving toward the windows, examining the latch mechanism. "Looks like these might open manually. No electronic locks."

Law joined him, both with their backs to the room, focused on our potential exit. Neither of them noticed the small device clipped to the guard's belt, its red light blinking steadily.

I saw it. The beacon. The guard's final insurance policy.

Fuck.

My body moved without thought, instinct overriding everything else. I lunged forward, grabbed Chet by his shirt, spinning him toward the window.

"What the—" Chet didn't finish as I slammed my shoulder into his chest, sending him crashing through the glass. The impact shattered the reinforced pane, sending him tumbling onto the lawn outside with a surprised shout.

I turned to Law next, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him toward the window with enough force to make him stumble. His eyes widened in confusion and anger. "What the fuck are you?—"

I pushed him through the opening before he could finish. His lawyer's reflexes were shit, but surprise and momentum carried him through after Chet.

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