Page 22 of Rogue Doll

The fucking Director is here, with Volkov's extraction team.What the fuck?

The realization hits like a shotgun blast to the chest. The whole operation is compromised. There's no Alpha team watching my back. No Bravo team in the service corridor. The surveillance is probably looping false footage while I'm being served up like a prime cut at a butcher's counter.

Killion's warning echoes in my head: "Don't trust anyone. Not even me."

But he hadn't said a goddamn thing about not trusting the Director of the entire fucking operation.

I have seconds to decide—fight now and die trying, or wait for a better opening. The decision crystallizes as Harlow moves past, his back to me for one precious moment.

I strike.

The bourbon glass makes a satisfying crack as it connects with the base of his skull. Not hard enough to kill—I need answers before I start eliminating problems—but enough to stun. He folds like a busted lawn chair, a grunt slipping out as he hits the hardwood.

Shit, did I just kill the Director?

Harlow groans and I release a sigh of relief even though the fucker looks guilty as hell showing up with Volkov’s team to kidnap me.

The noise, subtle as it is, draws the attention of the other two. They pivot, weapons raised, night vision scanning for the threat.

I don't give them time to find their boss. I launch from behind the island, firing two shots in rapid succession. The first catches Operative One in the throat, just above his body armor. He drops, gurgling, the MP5 clattering to the floor. The second shot goes wide as Operative Two returns fire, forcing me to dive behind the sofa as rounds stitch a pattern in the wall where I'd been standing.

“Stand down you little cunt or I’ll take out your kneecaps,” Operative Two barks, scanning the area, waiting for me to emerge.

Oh yeah? Eat lead, fucker.

I pop up from behind the sofa, squeeze off three rounds. One catches him in the shoulder, spinning him halfway around. He recovers fast, too fast, bringing the shotgun to bear.

The blast catches the sofa, shredding the designer fabric and sending splinters of frame into my leg. Pain explodes like white fire, but I roll with it, using the momentum to slide behind the heavy dining table, flipping it for cover.

Two rounds left in the magazine. Make them count.

He's moving carefully now, flanking, trying to get a clear shot. I can hear his breathing—controlled but heavier than before. The shoulder wound is slowing him down.

There's a moment of silence, the kind that stretches between heartbeats, between life and death.

Then everything happens at once.

The operative lunges into view, shotgun braced against his good shoulder. I fire my remaining rounds, aiming center mass where the armor is strongest—not to penetrate, but to stagger.

It works. He stumbles back, the impact forcing him to recoil just enough that his shot goes high, decimating the chandelier above. Crystal rains down like deadly confetti.

I'm on him before he can recover, using the empty gun as a bludgeon against his wounded shoulder. He howls, dropping to one knee, and I follow through with a palm strike to his throat that crushes his trachea.

He collapses, hands clutching his neck as he struggles for air that won't come. I retrieve his shotgun, putting a final round into his skull as mercy—or maybe just to make sure. The blast is deafening in the enclosed space, but silencers are a luxury I can't afford right now.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I pant, adrenaline making my voice shake as I systematically strip ammunition and a backup pistol from the corpse. Pain pulses through my leg where the wood splinters penetrated, but nothing arterial. I can still move, still fight.

I turn to where Harlow fell, ready to secure him for interrogation.

He's gone.

Fresh blood glistens on the floor—he's wounded, but mobile. Dangerous.

A noise from the bedroom galvanizes me into motion. More operatives? Or Harlow, looking for cover? Either way, I'm out of time and options.

The window. Nineteenth floor is suicide, but there's?—

The thought dies as the apartment door explodes inward, the concussive force of a breaching charge sending me sprawling. My head cracks against the edge of the overturned table, stars bursting across my vision.

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