Page 102 of Deadly Force

The man who stood in uniform and made oaths, now speaking like none of it ever mattered.

This isn’t just betrayal, it’s treason with a friendly face.

I have no time to process. There's only time to act.

I breach fast, hard, weapon high, eyes cutting the room into quadrants.

Brooke's tied to a chair. Face bruised. Dried blood on her lip. Eyes locked on mine, wide with terror and relief.

And between us—Crowley.

His head jerks when he sees me. Gun half-raised but not ready.

That pause—that split-second hitch in his reaction—is all I need to know.

He didn't expect me to get this far. Didn't think anyone would.

His surprise costs him.

White-hot rage floods my system. This piece of garbage put his hands on her. Terrorized her. The fury burns through my veins like acid.

I calculate in milliseconds. Distance: twelve feet. Her position: exposed. His stance: too square, too static. He's holding posture like it's a standoff, not realizing it's already a takedown.

Lawrence's in the corner, cowering behind a filing cabinet. Unarmed. Secondary threat.

I don't give Crowley time to adjust.

I crash into him low and brutal, shoulder to gut, full weight behind the drive. The impact lifts him off balance and slams him into the edge of a table. His weapon skitters across the floor with a sharp clatter.

But he's not down. And I'm not done.

The rage is a living thing now, consuming everything rational. He hurt her. He was going to kill her.

He's winded. Disoriented. Flailing like the coward he is.

I catch his wrist mid-swing and torque it hard. The joint locks. He grunts. Something gives with a wet pop. I shove him back with a knee, but he rolls, goes low—textbook academy sweep.

Wrong move against someone who's actually been to war.

I counter, step around, and drive my forearmacross the base of his skull. Not measured. Not controlled. I want him to feel every ounce of my fury. Hard enough to scramble his brain.

He stumbles. Off balance. Scrambling now like the rat he is.

I've seen this before—men trained for order trying to survive in chaos. He's fighting like he still thinks he's in control. Like he still thinks he's the predator.

He goes for his radio. I intercept, trap the arm, and drag him down hard onto the concrete. Shoulder first. His breath explodes out in a broken gasp.

Still not done. Still breathing.

He fumbles at his belt. A backup weapon, maybe. Knife. Baton. I don't care what it is.

I drive a knee into his kidney and hear him choke. A wet, gurgling sound. Pain short-circuits his brain. But he's still trying to fight back.

He throws a blind punch toward my left side, aimed at my jaw.

Big mistake.

I catch it. Twist. Hard. Violent. Something in his elbow snaps like dry wood under pressure.