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He's moving carefully now, flanking, trying to get a clear shot. I can hear his breathing—controlled but heavier than before. The shoulder wound is slowing him down.

There's a moment of silence, the kind that stretches between heartbeats, between life and death.

Then everything happens at once.

The operative lunges into view, shotgun braced against his good shoulder. I fire my remaining rounds, aiming center mass where the armor is strongest—not to penetrate, but to stagger.

It works. He stumbles back, the impact forcing him to recoil just enough that his shot goes high, decimating the chandelier above. Crystal rains down like deadly confetti.

I'm on him before he can recover, using the empty gun as a bludgeon against his wounded shoulder. He howls, dropping to one knee, and I follow through with a palm strike to his throat that crushes his trachea.

He collapses, hands clutching his neck as he struggles for air that won't come. I retrieve his shotgun, putting a final round into his skull as mercy—or maybe just to make sure. The blast is deafening in the enclosed space, but silencers are a luxury I can't afford right now.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I pant, adrenaline making my voice shake as I systematically strip ammunition and a backup pistol from the corpse. Pain pulses through my leg where the wood splinters penetrated, but nothing arterial. I can still move, still fight.

I turn to where Harlow fell, ready to secure him for interrogation.

He's gone.

Fresh blood glistens on the floor—he's wounded, but mobile. Dangerous.

A noise from the bedroom galvanizes me into motion. More operatives? Or Harlow, looking for cover? Either way, I'm out of time and options.

The window. Nineteenth floor is suicide, but there's?—

The thought dies as the apartment door explodes inward, the concussive force of a breaching charge sending me sprawling. My head cracks against the edge of the overturned table, stars bursting across my vision.

Through the ringing in my ears, I hear boots on hardwood. Multiple hostiles. Professional entry pattern.

I raise the shotgun, determined to take as many with me as I can, when a familiar voice cuts through the chaos.

"NOVA, STAND DOWN!"

Killion.

He materializes from the smoke like an avenging demon, gear making his already imposing frame massive in the doorway. Behind him, a full team sweeps in, securing the apartment with ruthless efficiency.

"Director's compromised," I gasp, blood from a scalp wound trickling into my eye. "He was here with Volkov's team. He?—"

"We know," Killion cuts me off, kneeling beside me, his hands already checking for serious injuries. His touch is clinical but not rough, cataloging damage with practiced precision. "Sienna intercepted communications an hour ago. The entire operation was a setup."

"You knew?" I grab his wrist, fury cutting through the pain. "You fucking knew and you sent me in anyway?"

Something flashes in his eyes—regret? Guilt? It's gone before I can be sure. "We suspected. We needed confirmation."

"So I really was bait," I laugh, the sound edged with hysteria. "Just not for who I thought."

"Harlow's been working with Volkov for months," Killion explains, helping me to my feet. My leg protests, but holds. "Selling our people, our operations. When you exposed Reese, they needed to clean house. You were the perfect scapegoat."

"Where's the real Alpha team? The backup?"

"There wasn't one," he admits, voice tight. "Just me and Sienna. We couldn't risk anyone else. Not until we knew who was compromised."

The betrayal tastes like copper and gunpowder on my tongue. "You risked my life on a fucking hunch?"

"I risked your life on your skills," he corrects, checking the shotgun I'm still clutching like a lifeline. "You held your own. Two trained operatives down, the Director on the run. Not bad for a rookie."

Before I can decide whether to thank him or shoot him, Sienna appears in the doorway, face grim.

"Harlow's gone," she reports. "Took an emergency evac route we didn't know existed. Left a blood trail to the garage level, then nothing."

“Yeah, I cracked the shit out of his head with whiskey snifter,” I said. “He’s probably bleeding like a stuck hog.”

"He'll go to ground," Killion says, already moving toward the exit, pulling me with him. "Contact all handlers, full blackout protocols. Everyone's compromised until proven otherwise."

"What about me?" I ask, limping beside him, acutely aware of the bodies cooling on the apartment floor. "Am I compromised too?"

Killion's eyes meet mine, something almost like respect glimmering in their depths. "No. You're the only one we're sure of."

"How can you be so certain?"

His laugh is sharp, humorless. "Because Harlow tried to have you killed. In our business, there's no better character reference."

As we exit the death scene that was supposed to be a simple observation post, I realize the game has changed entirely. I'm no longer just an asset, a weapon to be aimed and fired. I'm a player now, with skin in the game and blood on my hands.

The poison necklace still hangs around my throat, the pendant warm against my skin. I didn't need it tonight, but the night's not over. Harlow's out there. Volkov's out there. And now there’s really no hiding the target on my back. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"What happens now?" I ask as we enter the service elevator, the doors closing on the carnage behind us.

Killion checks his weapon, eyes cold with purpose. "Now we hunt."

And God help me, despite everything—the betrayal, the lies, the blood soaking into my designer dress—I feel that familiar electric thrill racing through my veins. The one that's always gotten me into trouble. The one that might finally get me killed.

Because Killion's right. Now we hunt.

And I've never felt more alive than when I'm dancing with death.

Has Landry survived the trap only to walk into an even deadlier game? As the Dollhouse crumbles and allegiances shift, one thing becomes clear: in this shadow war, the most dangerous weapon isn't the one you face—it's the one you trained yourself.

Outside, the city sleeps, unaware of the war about to erupt in its shadows. Harlow. Volkov. Their entire network of traitors and killers.

They think they've won. They think we're finished.

They have no idea what's coming for them.

Ready for more? VICIOUS DOLL, Book 3 in the Dirty Doll Ops series, is when the body count gets real.