Page 115 of Jayson
“Jayson—”
“Keira.” Her name breaks out of me like a gunshot. “There are men out there who won’t hesitate. Who don’t care about hurting women. Men who will not so much as blink if you scream.
Her lip trembles. But she nods.
She crawls inside. Pulls the blanket around herself. I hand her the emergency comm—a one-way link to my earpiece.
“You don’t talk unless I talk first. You don’t come out unless I come for you. You hear gunfire? You pray it’s me winning.”
Tears brim in her eyes, but she whispers, “Okay.”
I kiss her once. Hard. Fast. As if it’s the last.
“Lock it,” I say.
Then I slam the panel shut, and a moment later—the floor convulses beneath me, like the earth itself is gagging on violence.
A dullBOOMpunches through the house—followed by the deep-bellied groan of wood and steel under stress. Dust rains from the ceiling like ash, lightbulbs flickering like they’re blinking out their final prayers.
I’ve known war. I've danced with death. But this? This is my home. And they just made it personal.
I spin on instinct, bare feet thudding up the stairs. The house moans around me like a wounded beast—windows cracking, alarms dead, power pulsing erratic. Another blast hits—closer this time. Designed to disorient.
I hear footsteps, followed by low voices. Foreign accents sweeping room to room, methodical.
They’re here to create maximum damage. Or worse—take her.
Not fucking happening.
I flatten to the wall at the landing, gun cocked. Breath steady. I wait. Count. Three... two... The first one rounds the corner. He’s a tall Russian in a tactical vest. He has a silencer-equipped Glock raised in my direction.
I fire once. One shot straight to his temple.His head jerks to the side, body crumpling like a dropped marionette. I don’t have time to think. I move, snatching his weapon as I go.
A second man storms into view, gun half-raised. He’s too slow; my trained eyes zoom in and I rush him before he has a chance to exhale.
We collide in a tangle of limbs. He’s strong, but I’m faster—my knife finds his ribs, plunges in with a wet crack. Once. Twice. His scream gurgles into silence. I twist the blade for good measure before slamming his head into the marble post at the stairwell. Once. Twice. A third time. Bone cracks like thunder, and blood fans out across the bannister in chaotic, brutal strokes—violence painted in red.
I shove the body aside. My chest heaves. Blood runs slick down my arm—his, not mine.
Keira. Basement. Hidden. Safe.
I whisper it like a goddamn mantra, because if I lose focus for even a second, they’ll find her. And if they touch her?—
No. They won’t.
I stalk through the hallway, every step calculated. I’m hunting now. A wolf in his own den. Then—there’s more gunfire. Automatic. From the far end of the corridor.
The third wave hits hard. Two men this time. M4s. Suppressed, but still loud enough to know they’re not here tofuck around. They fire in bursts—walls splintering, glass shattering. One bullet clips my shoulder, grazing flesh. Pain flares hot, but I shove it down. Pain’s a distraction. Rage is a weapon.
I duck behind the column just as a fresh burst of gunfire tears through the hallway. Bullets rip through drywall, pulverizing it into a white storm. Plaster rains down on me like ash from a burning cathedral. The sharp sting of grit scrapes across my cheek, blinding my left eye.
My breath saws in and out—tight, measured. Every inhale tastes like dust and gunpowder. I roll my shoulder, testing the slice from earlier—burning, but manageable. Pain’s not the threat. Hesitation is.
I shift, slow and silent, pressing my back to the cold marble. Boots thud against the hardwood floors, drawing closer. Controlled. Coordinated.
They're not panicking yet. Good. That means they’re still underestimating me.
My good eye narrows. I track the rhythm of their shots—the way the muzzle flashes strobe across the opposite wall. Short bursts. Controlled sprays. Professional. But even trained killers have to reload.
