Page 50 of Outlaw Ridge: Ryker
Another round tore down the stairwell. He flinched back, then risked a quick lean to the side to catch a glimpse through the shadows.
And there, just for a flash, he saw him.
The shooter ducked behind the doorframe again, but Ryker caught enough.
Broad shoulders. Medium build. That same stiff-legged movement Ethan had when he was injured in training. Right height, same frame.
Could be Ethan.
Or it could be someone wearing a mask, trained to move like him, meant tolooklike him. Maybe it was a hired gun or stand-in. Either way, someone in that room wanted them dead.
Ryker wiped a streak of dust from his cheek and narrowed his eyes at the upstairs landing. The silence that followed the last burst of gunfire was taut, waiting, pulsing.
He took a breath and called out, voice sharp and carrying.
“You chickenshit coward. You won’t even show your face. You want to play soldier, but all you’ve got is shadows and ambushes?”
Nothing. Just stillness.
He pushed harder. “C’mon, Ethan. Or is that not you? Maybe you’re just some low-rent knockoff he hired to play the part.”
From across the stairwell, Emma caught the tone and picked up fast.
“Thismustbe Ethan,” she said, her voice ice. “He was never brave enough to face me head-on. Always had to control things from the shadows. Never had the guts for a real fight.”
For a heartbeat, there was no response.
Then a guttural, feral sound tore from upstairs. A roar of rage.
“You’redead meat!” the voice shouted.
And there was no mistaking it now. It was Ethan’s voice.
He burst from the doorway, face twisted beneath a ski mask, but the voice, the way he moved, it was him. And in both hands, pistols, already firing.
“Move!” Ryker barked, diving back behind the wall as rounds slammed into the stairwell, the banister, the walls. Shards of drywall sprayed like grit.
Emma hit the floor behind her cover on the opposite side, and Ryker could hear her breathing hard, her juts of breath matching his own.
They’d flushed him out.
But now came the storm.
“Damn it, Emma,” Ryker hissed under his breath as she leaned out from her cover, steadied her aim, and fired.
The shot cracked loud, sharp, and a half-second later, he heard it.
A grunt. The sickening sound of flesh taking a bullet. Then a stagger of boots against wood.
But before Ryker could shout a warning or move to take advantage, another sound cut through the air. Fast. Metallic.
Somethingclatteringagainst the stairs.
Ryker’s blood turned ice cold. Because he knew what it was.
A grenade.
“Run!” he shouted.
