Page 47 of Girl Lost (The King Legacy #1)

A TRIO OF GUNSHOTS pinged off the server rack inches from beside Corbin’s head, showering him with sparks and metal shards. He dropped to a crouch, heart hammering against his ribs.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. Stupid. He’d taken too long finding this room. Now he was pinned down with no clear exit.

He peered around the corner of the server rack. A man in black stood at the far end of the aisle, gun raised. No mask. Just cold, determined eyes.

As the man advanced, Corbin caught the subtle hitch in his gait.

The marina. The guy he’d kneecapped.

Corbin’s hand went to his pocket, fingers closing around the ASP baton. His only weapon against a gun. Great odds.

The flash drive felt like it was burning a hole in his other pocket. He had to get that data. Lives depended on it.

Three minutes. That was all he needed.

Three minutes to clone the hard drive and potentially bring down this entire operation. Mr. Hitch-in-his-step included.

He scanned the room. Rows upon rows of server racks stretched before him, a maze of blinking lights and humming machinery.

Tangles of multicolored cables snaked across the floor and climbed the walls like technicolor vines.

The low, persistent hum of cooling systems working overtime filled the air, a constant drone that set his teeth on edge.

There. A terminal, half-hidden behind a mess of wires. To reach it, he’d have to cross open ground. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Two more firecracker pops. He flinched as sparks erupted from the rack above him, raining down hot pinpricks on his skin. Too close. Far too close.

Corbin sprinted, keeping low. Pain lanced through his side where the stitches pulled. He gritted his teeth, pushing through it.

The terminal loomed closer. Ten feet. Five feet. Almost there.

A shout of rage echoed behind him. Hitch had spotted him and squeezed off three rapid bursts.

Corbin dove the last few feet, sliding across the smooth floor. His shoulder slammed into the base of the terminal, sending a jolt of pain through his body. But he’d made it.

He fished the flash drive from his pocket. His fingers shook as he plugged it in. It didn’t fit. He flipped it over and tried again. Still no good. What in the world? He looked at the USB slot, looked at the drive. Yeah, he had it right, so why wouldn’t it—this time it slid home.

The screen flickered to life. A prompt appeared. Run SecureDump_v 2 . 7 ?

He clicked it. A progress bar appeared.

1%.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Getting closer. Hitch was taking his time, savoring the hunt.

5%.

Corbin’s eyes darted between the painfully slow progress bar and the aisle where he knew Hitch was advancing. He pulled out the ASP baton. He might have to turn Mr. Hitch into Mr. Gimp.

10%.

“Come out, come out,” Hitch called. His voice was eerily calm. “We can end this quickly. Or not. Your choice.”

15%.

His mind raced, processing options, discarding plans as quickly as they formed. He couldn’t stay here. He was a sitting duck, trapped between the terminal and the approaching threat.

20%.

He had to move. Create a distraction. Buy himself more time.

25%.

Corbin unclipped his belt, sliding it free. Careful not to make a sound, he looped it around the nearest cable bundle.

30%.

The footsteps stopped. Corbin held his breath, every muscle tense.

“I know you’re here. I can smell your fear. It’s ... intoxicating.”

35%.

Corbin closed his eyes, steadying himself. Now or never.

In one fluid motion, he yanked hard on the belt. Cables snapped free. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, sparks erupted as live wires made contact.

The gunman cursed, momentarily distracted by the sudden light show.

Seizing his chance, Corbin burst from his hiding spot. The ASP baton extended with a satisfying click, becoming a solid rod of hard metal. He swung with all his might, aiming for the wrist.

A satisfying crack echoed through the room as metal met bone. The impact reverberated up Corbin’s arm.

The gun clattered to the floor, skittering away across the smooth surface.

Hitch recovered quickly. With a roar, he barreled into Corbin’s waist, tackling him. Something tore. Stitches maybe.

They went down hard. Corbin’s back slammed against the cold floor, driving the air from his lungs. Stars exploded behind his eyes as his head connected with the ground.

Hitch was on top of him. His hands pressed into Corbin’s throat, thick fingers digging into soft flesh. He gasped, struggling to draw breath. The baton. Where was the baton?

45%.

The number flashed in Corbin’s peripheral vision, a cruel reminder of how much time he still needed.

With a surge of desperate strength, he jabbed Hitch in the solar plexus, driving the wind out of him. Maybe breaking a rib or two. Hitch coughed out a hunk of air.

The pressure on Corbin’s throat eased.

He didn’t waste the opportunity. He bucked his hips, throwing the larger man off balance. They rolled, grappling for dominance. Corbin’s ribs screamed in protest as they slammed against a server rack.

50%.

Hitch was strong, but Corbin had desperation and years of training with Stryker on his side. He fought dirty, using every trick he’d ever learned.

Corbin chopped him in the throat, nailing his windpipe. Hitch gagged, his grip loosening. Corbin followed up with a knee to the kidney, feeling a grim satisfaction as the gunman’s eyes bulged with pain.

55%.

Corbin pressed his advantage, driving the man back toward the sparking cables.

60%.

Hitch’s eyes widened as he realized the danger. With a snarl, he lunged for Corbin, catching him off guard. His shoulder connected with Corbin’s chest. They hit the ground hard, Corbin on the bottom this time.

65%.

The impact sent shock waves of pain through his body. His vision swam. The taste of copper filled his mouth—he’d bitten his tongue in the fall.

70%.

Hitch’s hands closed around Corbin’s throat, squeezing with renewed vigor. Corbin clawed at the man’s arms, trying to break his grip, but it was like trying to bend steel.

Spots danced at the edges of his vision. His lungs burned, screaming for air.

75%.

Corbin’s fingers scrabbled for purchase, searching desperately for something, anything to use as a weapon. His hand brushed against something solid. The ASP baton.

80%.

With the last reserves of his strength, Corbin’s fingers closed around the baton. He tightened his grip, summoning every ounce of power he had left.

He swung. The baton connected with the side of the man’s head with a thwack. Hitch’s eyes rolled back, his grip on Corbin’s throat slack.

85%.

Corbin gasped, sucking in precious molecules of oxygen. His throat felt raw, each breath a painful rasp.

90%.

The gunman staggered to his feet, swaying like a drunk. Blood trickled from a gash on his temple where the baton had struck. His eyes were unfocused, dazed.

He took an unsteady step back.

Right into the exposed wires.

95%.

Hitch’s body went rigid. Muscles locking in place. A horrible, guttural sound escaped his lips as electricity coursed through him. The smell of burning flesh filled the air.

Corbin turned away, unable to watch. His stomach roiled, threatening to expel its meager contents.

98%.

The horrible sound cut off abruptly. There was a thud as the gunman’s body hit the floor, smoke rising from his twitching form.

100%.

The terminal beeped, the sound jarringly cheerful in the aftermath of violence.

Download complete.

Corbin crawled to the terminal and yanked the flash drive free. Panting, he tucked it securely in his pocket, patting it to reassure himself it was really there.

The hilt of Hitch’s gun stuck out from the tangle of cables beside the terminal. He crawled to it and picked it up. Checked the rounds.

Half a load. Good. Plenty of rounds.

But it wouldn’t ride in his waistband, not without his belt. He’d just have to carry it.

He stood. Pain shot through his side, but his legs held.

He turned, his gaze falling on the gunman’s body. The man’s eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, his face frozen in a rictus of pain and surprise.

A wave of nausea washed over Corbin. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. It was self-defense, yes, but the brutality of it shook him to his core.

But there was no time for regret or self-recrimination.

Corbin stumbled toward the exit, his legs unsteady beneath him.

Every step sent shock waves of pain through his battered body.

His throat throbbed where the gunman’s fingers had dug in, and he could already feel bruises forming.

Blood soaked through his shirt, but not as bad as before. He’d be fine.

A tremor ran through the building.

The floor beneath his feet shuddered, and a distant boom echoed through the corridors. An explosion.

He yanked the door open, nearly falling into the hallway beyond.

Emergency lights pulsed an angry red, casting eerie shadows that danced along the walls. A siren wailed. No smoke. Not yet.

Corbin sprinted down the hall, heading for the service tunnel.