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CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Knight

The first shot rips into my side, hot and searing. The impact forces the air from my lungs, every nerve screaming in protest. I stagger, clutching the wound, warmth spreading beneath my fingers as blood pools.

Before I can recover, a second bullet punches into my shoulder, sending me crashing into a server rack. My skull collides with unforgiving metal, stars bursting behind my eyes. Agony pulses in relentless waves, and I have to fight to stay focused.

Assess. Adapt. Survive.

Blood streams from both wounds, pooling beneath me and soaking my shirt. My fingers respond when I test them, which means no paralysis. My breathing is shallow and sharp, but I force air into my lungs. No major arteries hit, but the blood loss will be a problem soon. The backup gun at my ankle becomes my target.

Focus, Knight.

Sullivan’s expression darkens, his jaw tightening as he ducks behind a console to avoid the gunfire tearing through the room. The corrupted servers flicker in his peripheral vision, a grim reminder that his empire is unraveling. Behind me, the virus devours their system, years of stolen research collapsing into chaos.

Gunfire tears through the air, bullets sparking off steel and embedding into the walls. Smoke and the acrid tang of burning circuits fill my lungs. My brothers are a blur of motion, tearing through Sullivan’s security team with unrelenting force. The guards fight back, their shots wild but dangerous, forcing Rook and Bishop into cover as they dismantle the resistance one by one. The chaos is deafening, each shot reverberating through my skull. My vision wavers, but I force myself to stay conscious. Passing out isn’t an option.

Sullivan ducks lower behind the console, barking orders at his remaining guards.

“Hold them back!” he shouts over the cacophony. “I want them pinned down!”

One guard moves closer, firing blind toward Rook’s position, but Bishop’s shot takes him down before he can reposition. The remaining security scatter, their confidence faltering as the tide turns against them. Sullivan’s sneer falters as well, though he tries to mask it with anger.

“This didn’t have to happen. You could have been part of something extraordinary! Your talents—wasted on this rebellion!”

"Still using ten words when two would do." Blood pools in my mouth, and I spit it out while my hand inches toward the backup gun at my ankle, every motion lighting fresh fires in my side and shoulder.

"Such disdain. You’ve always had a knack for efficiency and detachment. Perfect for this kind of work. Machines over people. Your priorities were always clear.”

“You always talk about priorities,” I rasp, my voice wet with blood. “Was Victor just another tool? Michael Porter? How many lives have you burned through for this?”

Sullivan’s jaw tightens, the corporate mask cracking. “Progress requires difficult choices. Their work will resonate far beyond their lives. That’s the price of greatness.”

“And now their work is dust.”

The flash of anger in his eyes cuts through the chaos as he gestures at the failing systems.

"Temporary setbacks! We have redundancies. Backups. And soon, we’ll have you."

He steps from behind the console, gun raised, every motion steady despite the chaos tearing through the room. The barrel points directly at me, his lips curling into a sneer.

"Maybe I’ll start with your legs." His voice is low and vicious. "You won’t be running anywhere."

My pulse stutters as his gun levels at me. The room blurs at the edges, dizziness clawing at my focus, and the copper tang of blood fills my mouth. My breath rasps, shallow and wet, each second threatening to drag me under.

The crack of a gunshot pierces the chaos, sharp and deafening, and I brace myself waiting for a new explosion of pain. When it doesn’t come, I frown, watching as Sullivan jerks forward, his expression shifting from triumph to shock.

I don’t see where the shot came from, but the force drives him down, a second shot following as he drops to his knees. Blood spreads across the front of his shirt. The echo of gunfire fades, leaving only the hum of destruction and the rasp of my shallow breathing.

Rook comes into view, close behind Sullivan, and his eyes meet mine as his third shot punches through Sullivan’s back, jerking him forward. Shock splashes across Sullivan’s face as a fourth round from Bishop strikes his chest, dropping him to the floor. His blood spreads like spilled ink, soaking his tailored suit. The threat dissolves into silence.

“Rook,” I grind out, voice scraping like gravel. “Take down the servers. All of it. Nothing left.”

Rook doesn’t hesitate. Gunshots ring out as he obliterates the equipment, sparks flying as processors and drives shatter. Smoke thickens, choking the air with a mix of scorched circuits and spilled coolant. The floor gleams wet with blood and chemicals.

“More incoming.” Bishop‘s tone is sharp. “Response team’s on the move.”

The remaining guards scatter, abandoning their posts rather than facing whatever took down their boss. My brothers haul me to my feet, their hands firm despite the slickness of my blood. Pain blazes through me with every step as we retreat, the world spinning.

The silence outside feels jarring, too quiet compared with the carnage we’ve left behind. The SUV is parked exactly where we left it, and my brothers load me into the back.

Pain and blood loss drag at my consciousness, pulling me under then releasing me in waves. Sometimes I surface long enough to catch snippets of conversation, voices filtering through the haze of agony and exhaustion.

"Bleeding's slowing." Bishop's voice comes from somewhere ahead. "Keep pressure on the exit wounds."

"Five minutes." Rook's response carries tension I rarely hear from him. "Traffic's clear ahead."

Darkness pulls at me, but I surface again when the SUV jerks to a stop. Familiar voices blend with the sound of doors slamming.

"Get him inside." Victor's command cuts through the fog. "Straight to the table."

"The wound—" That’s Michael, I think.

"Exit's are clean." Bishop again. "Through and through, missed anything vital."

Then Eva's voice, sharp with fear. "You left me behind!"

"Later." Rook's tone allows no argument. "Help us get him stabilized first."

Her hands find me, trembling but steady. The antiseptic burns, but the fire in her touch grounds me. Her scent cuts through the copper tang of blood and smoke, a reminder of something solid amidst the chaos.

“Next time,” she whispers, her voice fierce, “you don’t go without me.”

“Noted.” A smile tugs at my mouth despite the pain. Even half-conscious, I know there's no point arguing. She'll either come with us, or follow on her own. Probably get herself killed trying to prove something.

Her glare could cut steel. “You think this is funny?”

A weak laugh rasps from my throat. “Hilarious. You’re mad I’m not dead.”

Her hands pause, trembling just enough for me to notice. “If you die, I’ll kill you.”

"Good to know." The words emerge rough, but her hand tightens on mine.

"You're an asshole." But her touch remains gentle as she helps clean the wound. "A stupid, overprotective asshole who thinks he can make choices for other people."

"Nothing new there."

The pain starts to recede as whatever they've given me kicks in. Eva's fingers thread through my hair. My brothers' voices blend with Victor's and Michael's, discussing cleanup plans.

"You're not dying." Eva's whisper carries steel beneath the concern. "I haven't finished being angry with you yet."

“Can’t wait.”

Darkness pulls at me again, but her touch keeps me present. Everything hurts, but we accomplished what we set out to do. Sullivan's dead. His operation's destroyed. His servers are smoking ruins. Nothing left for anyone to salvage or rebuild.

And somehow, despite everything, I managed not to get Eva killed in the process.

The bullet was the easy part. The real battle? Surviving Eva’s wrath.