Page 116 of Jayson
I count the seconds. Listen for the telltale click. That half-second pause in the orchestra of chaos.
There it is. Magazine change.
I pivot out from behind the column, rifle raised. My stance is solid, breath locked. Pop. Pop. Pop. Three controlled shots. No wasted movement. No time to think.
The first round hits the lead man dead-center in the forehead. His head snaps back like it’s been yanked by a string, helmet flying off. Blood fountains upward in a crimson arc before he crashes backward—dead before he hits the floor.
The second man stumbles, eyes wide, arms flailing for cover. Too late. The third bullet buries itself in his throat. He makes astrangled noise—half scream, half gurgle—and falls against the wall, dragging bloody smears down the wallpaper as he slides to the floor.
I don’t stop moving. No time to admire the carnage. No time to feel.
I charge forward—gun up, jaw clenched, heart hammering like it’s trying to punch its way through my ribs.
I barely have time to register the silence before it fractures. A whisper of movement. So soft I almost miss it. A breeze where there should be stillness. A breath not mine. My instincts scream. I spin—and he’s just there.
Not one of the four I killed. This one’s different. Bigger. Older. Dressed in matte-black tactical gear with no insignia, no comms. His face is painted, half-shadowed. No emotion. No hesitation.
His presence slices through the carnage like a scalpel. A ghost. A cleaner. The kind of man you send when you want no bodies found.
I raise my gun, but I’m too late.
He knocks it aside with brutal precision, slams a gloved fist into my ribs. I grunt—feel something crack—but I stay on my feet. He moves fast for his size. Trained. Unshakable.
But I’ve danced with death longer than he’s been paid to pretend to be it.
I throw a hook. He deflects. Grabs my arm and twists—nearly dislocates it—but I drive my elbow into his throat with my free hand. He staggers back, and I launch at him, shoulder first, slamming him through the side table in the foyer. Glass and wood splinters explode outward.
We grapple. Close. Ugly.
He headbutts me—stars explode behind my eyes—but I don’t let go.
This isn’t sparring. This is a death match.
He lands a knife-hand blow to my neck and almost drops me. I catch his wrist mid-swing and twist until he howls. He tries to draw a blade from his belt, but I kick it away, then punch—once, twice, three times—until his jaw dislocates and teeth fly loose like dice on a casino floor.
Blood pours down his chin. Still, he comes at me. Relentless.
I slam him against the wall. The drywall cracks. His head hits the frame of the door hard enough to leave a dent.
“Who the fuck sent you?” I growl.
He doesn’t answer. He tries to bite. I slam his head again. And again. And again. Until his body finally slumps. Until the only thing left in his eyes is nothing.
I let go. Let him drop. His body folds into itself like trash. Heavy. Lifeless.
My hands are shaking now—not from fear. From fury. From restraint. Because if this one slipped through undetected… what else has?
Keira. Fuck. Keira.
I stumble back, chest heaving, blood in my eyes, in my mouth, in my fucking soul.
Five men. Five bodies. And I don’t know how many more there are.
45
KANYAN
The car snarls beneath me, engine growling like it knows the war I’m driving into. I tear out of the underground garage, tires screaming, the wheel jerking in my fists like it’s trying to pull free.
