Page 179 of Blood & Throttle
I pull my sidearm, line him up while he’s still trying to scream for backup and squeeze the trigger. One clean shot to the back, right through the vest, straight into the spine. He collapses mid-run, twitching like a dying insect before slamming face-first into the wall, leaving a red smear as he slides down.
Fourth dipshit’s behind a desk. Scrawny. Probably new. Body armor too big. Hand shaking like a fucking leaf as he fumbles for a comm. Eyes wide like he’s seeing death for the first time.
Good.
I shoot his hand first, watching it explode in a wet mess across the desk. He screams like a bitch, then hits the floor.
I shoot his knee next. The sound he makes then isn’t even human.
And then?
One more shot. Right between the eyes. His head jerks back, hits the desk behind him. Blood paints the wall like abstract art.
Then nothing.
Silence.
But not the peaceful kind. Not the silence of calm.
This is the aftermath. The calm that comes after you level a fucking battlefield.
Blood’s pooling fast—slick and black under the shitty flickering hallway lights. The smell hits me hard: cordite, smoke, piss, blood, and something underneath it all. That rot. That fucking Syndicate stink. Like death wrapped in concrete and wrapped in secrets.
They were set up just past the breach. Standard Syndicate dogs. Not elite. Not soldiers. Just bodies with orders. Disposable.
And now? Disposed.
I step over them slow, methodical. My boots squelch in the gore. My fingers twitch around my blade. My pulse is a fucking war drum.
Because I’m close.
She’s in here.
And if I walk in and I’m too fucking late, I swear on every grave this world’s rotting in, I’ll burn this compound to ash. I’ll gut Kane slow, carve his name off the bones of history, and make every bastard who watched her suffer beg for a death I won’t give them.
This wasn’t a misstep. This was a death wish. And what do you know?
The motherfucking Reaper answered.
Thirty-Five
Sienna
Little Girl Gone - CHINCHILLA
My mouth tasteslike rusted metal and regret.
Copper clings to my tongue, thick and bitter, and the sharp ache blooming behind my left eye tells me I’ve been out longer than I should’ve been. Everything’s hazy, like waking up underwater, like trying to breathe through cement. My wrists scream when I shift. Zip ties, tight enough to cut off circulation. My ankles are pinned to the chair legs too. Fuck.
Of course I’m tied to a chair. Again.
I blink through the dim, flickering light, trying to piece together how the hell I got here. I was heading back to the pit, bullet keychain in hand. I was grinning. I didn’t see Jace coming. Didn’t hear the footsteps. Just the sting of something cracking against the back of my skull and the sudden rush of pavement under my knees.
Black.
That’s all there was after that.
I don’t know how long I’ve been out. Could’ve been tenminutes. Could’ve been hours. And worse—I don’t know if Riot crossed the finish line. If he even knows I’m gone.
