Page 114 of The Viper
Whoever had set this in motion, whoever had pulled the strings—they weren't some low-level stalker with a grudge. They were organized. Connected. And they were still out there.
"Fuck this," I muttered under my breath.
I took another step forward. Hank's eyes snapped to me, his gun steadying in my direction. "Stop!" he screamed. "I swear to God, I'll?—"
But he took another step back. Reflex. Fear. He couldn't help himself.
He opened his mouth to say something else—another threat, another empty boast—but he never got the chance.
The sound came first. A sharpclinkof breaking glass, so faint I almost missed it.
Then Hank's head exploded.
Blood and brain matter sprayed across the wall behind him, a grotesque abstract painting that would haunt this room forever. His body crumpled, knees buckling, the gun slipping from his fingers as he hit the floor in a heap.
For a second, the world was silent.
Then instinct kicked in. I moved toward him, my pistol back in its holster. I didn't need to check for a pulse—half his skull was missing—but I kicked the gun away from his twitching hand, anyway. Never leave an enemy, even a dead one, with a weapon. Old habits.
"Lucas?"
Lexi's voice was small, shaky, but not gone. I turned to her. She was staring at Hank's body, her hand pressed to her mouth, eyes wide with shock. But she wasn't catatonic. She was present, processing, surviving.
"Noah," I said, nodding toward the shattered window across the room. "He’s a good shot."
Her gaze followed mine to the window, then back to the body. "He's dead."
"Yeah."
She pointed at him, her hand trembling. "His head—there's so much?—"
"Don't look," I said, stepping toward her. "Just look at me."
Her eyes met mine, and I saw it—the terror, the relief, the disbelief that she was still standing. I pulled her into my arms. She collapsed against me, her body shaking, the handcuffs still binding her wrists pressing cold against my chest.
"You're okay," I murmured into her hair. "You're safe."
"He was going to kill me," she whispered.
"I know. But he didn't."
I pulled back just enough to look at her, my hands framing her face. Blood smeared her cheek—his or hers, I couldn't tell. "Let's get these off you."
I pulled my pick set from my pocket, working the cuffs open with practiced efficiency. They fell away with a metallic clatter, and she rubbed her wrists, wincing.
"Your shoulder," I said, my eyes dropping to the wound. It was a graze, clean but angry, blood soaking through her shirt.
"It's fine," she said, though her voice wavered.
"We'll get you looked at."
She nodded, but her gaze drifted back to Hank's body. "I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Hannah. I wasn’t sure this morning . . ."
"It’s okay."
"Lucas, I don't—" Her voice cracked. "I don't understand. Why would she do this?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But we'll figure it out."
