Page 138 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

Both of us crowd into her tiny bathroom, a space barely big enough for one person, let alone two adults trying not to brush against a shower curtain that might rustle and give us away. I shut and lock the door. There's nothing to barricade the door, so that flimsy lock is our only defense. The fluorescent light hums overhead, casting harsh shadows that make Londyn's face look gaunt with fear.

I check my magazine with hands that somehow remain steady despite the storm inside me. The magazine is full. Fifteen rounds, plus one in the chamber. There's an extra clip in my holster. I pray that's enough. It has to be enough. I screw on my suppressor as Londyn observes with rounded eyes. All the color has drained from her face, making her appear ghostly.

She pulls a can of mace from her purse, her fingers white-knuckled around it. She's terrified but refusing to break. She looks to me, waiting for direction, those brown eyes locked on mine with absolute trust.

Trust.

Should she have trusted me? Because here we are, cornered in a fucking bathroom while Mike bleeds out across the hall.

Here we are because of my fuck-up. Another one to add to the collection.

Mike isdown.Mike, who has a pregnant wife waiting for him and two little boys who need their father. Who only stayed these extra days because I couldn't convince him to go home. Who is probably dead because I couldn't keep my hands off Londyn long enough to check my damn messages.

Ten minutes could've saved him. We might've all gotten out.

Or they might've been waiting for us outside.

The guilt isn't just a weight; it's corrosive, eating through my insides. But I can't afford to drown in it. Not now.

Whoever these people are, they knew exactly where to go to disable our security. They knew which apartment held the cameras, knew how to get to our system. How did we miss them watching us? Studying our patterns? Figuring out Londyn's protection was stationed across the hall?

They're too good, too precise. These definitely aren't men some idiot director hired. This attack is from someone who knows what the fuck they're doing.

And now we're trapped.

I take deep breaths, forcing my heart rate to slow. Panic makes people stupid. I can't afford stupid right now.

I won't let Londyn die.

Fucking think, soldier!

At least two hostiles are confirmed. The bathroom offers exactly one advantage—a single point of entry to defend—but that same feature makes it a potential coffin if they decide to smoke us out or bring superior firepower.

We're outmaneuvered, possibly outnumbered, and definitely operating with an information deficit.

I strain to listen for movement in the apartment, trying to gauge their approach. Are these men looking to kidnap Londyn? Or is this pure execution?

Will they care about noise? A gunshot would bring police within minutes. But if they're using suppressors, they could execute us both and be gone before anyone notices. Would they shoot through the door? That depends on their orders.

Men who don't care about getting caught are the most dangerous kind.

My eyes drift to the small bathroom window, the one I'd squeezed through once before to test security. It's tight, but Londyn's smaller than me. We're three stories up, but there's a decorative ledge running along the building's façade, about eight inches wide. Enough to edge along if you don't look down. If we could reach the balcony two apartments over, we'd have options.

Or… I'll draw their fire so Londyn can escape.

But the clock is ticking. Every scenario carries massive risk: fatal falls, bullet wounds, capture.

Too many unknowns, too many ways this goes wrong. But staying still is just delaying the inevitable. We need movement, surprise, anything to shift the dynamic.

I place my hands on Londyn's shoulders, locking eyes with her. "You need to climb out that window. Use the ledge. Get to a balcony, then to the fire escape. I'll create a diversion."

Her eyes flash wide. "No."

"Londyn—"

"I'm not leaving you," she says as she moves closer and lifts her chin. "Not a goddamn chance. Can't we call the police?"

I can hear footsteps now in the living room—distant but approaching, methodical and unhurried. They know we're cornered.

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