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A voice barked in Russian, followed by the woman’s Hungarian.
A shout. A clatter.
The guard wasn’t calling for help—not yet. He was confused.
But he wouldn’t remain so for long.
Thomas moved.
I saw it from the edge of the frame—his body rising from the shadows, quick and precise. With one arm hooked around the guard’s neck, he jammed the pen-syringe into the opposite side.
The struggle was immediate.
The guard threw his weight backward, and they crashed into the doorframe.
The flashlight, still bright as the sun in the gloom, clattered to the floor. Its beam spun wildly across the walls and curtains.
The guard twisted hard.
He threw an elbow.
Kicked out with a boot.
The rifle flailed, still slung over his shoulder.
I lunged forward, leaving Eszter to hide.
And then—
Crack.
The rifle exploded.
It sounded like the world tearing apart in a single thunderclap.
The ceiling above us split.
Plaster cracked and fell like snow.
Dust swallowed the hallway.
My heart flew into my throat.
The guard was already collapsing—the syringe still embedded in his neck, his body spasming once before he crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.
But Thomas fell, too.
His face pressed to the floor.
He lay motionless.
For a second, I thought he was just winded.
The thought didn’t hold.
Thomas groaned and pushed himself to his knees.
That’s when I saw it.