Page 73 of The Unlikely Spare
Nicholas doesn’t even look back, just keeps sprinting for the building. Smart.
But my relief is short-lived.
Because just as Nicholas reaches for the door handle, a fifth attacker emerges from behind a stack of supply crates. He must have been positioned there, waiting.
I see the glint of metal in his hand.
Not a gun. Something worse.
A syringe, held like a knife, ready to plunge into Nicholas’s neck.
Time slows to honey, each second stretching impossibly long. I’m fifteen meters away. Too far. My weapon’s up, but Nicholas is directly in the line of fire. If I miss by even a fraction?—
“Down!” The word tears from my throat, raw and desperate.
Nicholas spins at the sound of my voice. Sees the new threat. Processes the situation.
And makes a decision that stops my heart cold.
Instead of dropping or evading, he stepstowardhis attacker, inside the arc of the arm, like he’s embracing a lover.
My breath slams out of me.
Not Nicholas.
Nothim.
The thought spirals around my brain as I watch helplessly from fifteen meters away, my weapon useless.
Nicholas drives his forehead directly into the man’s face.
The headbutt connects with an audible crack, the sound carrying over the chaos around us.
The attacker staggers backward, blood streaming from his shattered nose, the syringe dropping harmlessly to clatter on the concrete.
I reach Nicholas and the attacker in massive strides. I grab the dazed attacker by his collar and drive my fist into his temple with enough force to drop him instantly.
He crumples, unconscious before he hits the ground.
“Inside,” I grit out, seizing Nicholas’s arm.
I practically throw him through the maintenance building door, following immediately and slamming it shut behind us.
The locks engage with a satisfying click.
I do a rapid tactical assessment of our shelter. Single room, maybe four meters by three. Cleaning supplies are lined up on metal shelving units. Mops and buckets in one corner. One window, high and narrow—defensible but not a viable exit. No other doors.
We’re trapped, but we’re secure.
“Status,” Cavendish demands through my earpiece.
“The Thistle is secure in a maintenance building east side of the parade ground,” I report, my voice rough with adrenaline. “Multiple hostiles neutralized. Need immediate perimeter security and extraction.”
“Copy that. Team converging on your position. Two minutes out. Maintain cover.”
I spin toward Nicholas, and the sight of him nearly drops me to my knees.
He’s leaning against a supply shelf, chest heaving with each breath. There’s blood smeared across his forehead from the headbutt—his blood or the attacker’s, I can’t tell. But his eyes are alert. His usually perfect hair is disheveled and his linen suit is torn at the shoulder.
