Page 163 of Revenge Saints
“We go room by room,” I grunt. I’m held together by nothing but the memory of Knox’s blood on my hands. “No hesitation.”
Max nods once, jaw locked. His face is smeared with someone else’s blood, his knuckles raw and torn, and I know he’d tear this whole base down with his teeth if I asked him to.
We breach the door; our old home turned into a graveyard. It smells like mold and death and something fouler. Roman’s stench infecting every corner.
We sweep the first floor fast. Quick, efficient, just like Knox trained us.
Three of Roman’s men storm out of the west hall. No warning. No words. Just raised guns and cocky eyes.
They die before they finish a breath.
Max drops one with his last bullet, a clean shot to the throat. The other two rush me. One’s got a knife. The other swings a bat like he’s in some post-apocalyptic baseball league.
I move straight into the first one’s space, grab his wrist, twist until it breaks with a wet snap, and drive the knife into his own throat. He gurgles, eyes wide, falling.
The one with the bat doesn’t get a second swing. Max takes him down hard, slamming his head against the wall until the drywall cracks and blood splatters like paint.
I catch my breath.
Main floor, clear.
Bottom floor.
We head for the stairs. As we descend, the air thickens, the tension crawls down my spine like a second skin.
Gunfire erupts from the shadow, controlled bursts; they’ve been waiting.
“Down!” I shove Max into cover, bullets shattering glass and biting chunks out of the walls.
We’re pinned for seconds that feel like hours.
Max moves low. Fast. He gets behind a support beam. I sprint in the opposite direction, slide behind a flipped table, my shoulder grazing metal.
No ammo. No backup. Nothing but rage.
“We flank,” I mutter, loud enough for Max to hear. He nods.
We split. Move in silence.
One man reloads just a breath too slow, and I’m on him. I grab the muzzle of his gun, shove it down, and ram my knee into his face until he folds. Then I wrap my arm around his neck and squeeze until his body goes still.
The other fires blindly; he doesn’t see Max come up behind him. Doesn’t even know what hit him when Max drives his elbow into the back of his skull.
Silence again.
Just our breathing.
Max grunts, his hand going to his arm. Blood runs down the sleeve of his shirt.
“I’m fine,” he says before I can ask. “Just a graze.”
I look him over; he’s pale but standing.
We don’t stop.
We reach the final hallway, Knox’s room.
The air changes. Heavier. Denser. Like something is waiting.
