Page 62 of Hunted to Be Mine

“What about the tram?” She nodded toward it.

“Too predictable. Fixed route, bad exits.”

“So what, then?”

An underpass entrance sat about fifty meters ahead. “Underground. Cut through, double back, find a car.”

We crossed with purpose, not panic. The underpass was dim, graffiti layered thick on concrete. Burned-out bulbs made pockets of darkness. Good for hiding. Perfect for an ambush.

I drew the pistol from Kruger’s place and held it low by my leg. Selina saw it and said nothing.

The temperature dropped as we went down the stairs. Our footsteps bounced off the walls, the sound slapping back from every direction. The air reeked of piss and old smoke with wet concrete under it all.

Halfway through, the air shifted. That prickle along the skin that meant eyes on you. I slowed, scanning.

“Specter?” Selina kept her voice low.

I touched a finger to my mouth, then pointed to a maintenance door on the right. “Angle that way. Casual pace.”

We changed course. My brain ran scenarios: front, back, multiple angles. Fifteen meters. Ten. Five.

Movement to the left.

I shoved Selina behind me as a figure peeled out of the dark. Tall. Lean. Efficient. Blackout.

“Run.” I turned into him.

He closed fast, smooth and controlled. No weapon out. He wanted us alive, or at least, wanted her intact.

I fired twice, center mass. The shots thundered in the tight space, muzzle flash strobing his face: cold, blank, locked in. He twisted from the rounds with sharp speed, using the columns for cover.

I edged toward the maintenance door and fired again to pin him. Behind me, the handle rattled.

“It’s locked!” Selina called.

He slid between columns, his movements clean and practiced. I tracked and fired, but he read it, dropped low, and closed the gap.

He struck fast: one hand knocked my gun away while the other shot for my throat. I blocked with my forearm and drove a shot to his solar plexus. Solid hit, but he barely dipped.

We traded blows, testing, adjusting, waiting for the opening. He was good. Better than good. Every move tight. Nothing wasted. My style was born in alleys and basements. His was built in a lab and honed to kill.

“The door!” Selina shouted.

I glanced back. She’d jimmied it. The door stood open to a narrow service corridor.

Blackout drove his knee into my ribs. Heat flared along my side. He pressed in, hands grabbing for control.

I caught his wrist and used his momentum to pull him forward as I stepped aside. He recovered instantly. It bought me half a second, enough to drive my elbow into his head. A normal man might have dropped. He didn’t.

“Go!” She froze in the doorway. I cut the word loose, and she bolted into the corridor. Blackout tracked her—target acquired—then pivoted to follow.

Not happening.

I tackled him at the waist and slammed him into the wall. The hit rattled both of us. He changed targets and drove his elbow into my back. Again. Kidney shots.

Pain rippled out, but I held on. Buy her time. He grabbed a handful of hair and cracked my head against the concrete. I saw stars, tasted metal.

“She will be recovered,” he said. Flat. “You will be terminated. These outcomes are non-negotiable.”