Page 140 of Shadow Waltz
“You think this is freedom?” he rasped. “It’s just a different kind of cage.”
For a second, the tunnel went quiet. The only sounds were our harsh breathing and the distant rattle of subway rails somewhere deep in the dark. Then, echoing up from the tunnels,came the staccato rhythm of boots. They were coming, fast, rifles raised, shouts ricocheting off the old tile.
Reddick didn’t hesitate. He fired a signal shot down the corridor, drawing their focus. The first squad swept in with their flashlights darting across the walls, eyes wild and jumpy. Troy was already moving, grabbing Ash and shoving him behind the ticket counter for cover. Dmitri followed, his limp worse now, but his grip on his knife never faltered.
I dropped behind a steel pillar as the first agent appeared, rifle up. I squeezed off two rounds before he had a chance to speak. He went down hard, gun clattering on the tiles. Another agent tried to drag him back, but Troy blindsided him, slamming his head into the wall. Dmitri took the opening to lunge, slicing a third agent’s femoral artery. The man went down shrieking, blood pooling across the floor.
Reddick used the chaos to move up, barking orders at his team. He ducked behind a column, his aim never wavering, eyes never leaving Ash’s position. “He’s mine!” he snapped at the others, but none of the agents seemed to hear. They just wanted the fight over.
One of them fired blindly into the gloom, bullets tearing chunks from the walls above my head. I shifted right, scanning for a target, and saw Ash rise from behind cover. He fired twice, the first shot shattering a rifle, the second tearing through an agent’s leg. The agent dropped, howling. Blood splattered the ticket window.
Smoke filled the air as another agent tossed a flashbang down the steps. Dmitri hurled a trash can lid on top of it. The blast was muted but still shook the floor, raining dust from the ceiling and making my ears ring. I blinked, vision swimming, then saw Reddick rushing at me, sidearm up. I rolled away, gun drawn, and caught him across the ribs with a shot that grazedhis vest. He stumbled, cursing, and fired back, grazing my arm. I ignored the pain. There was no room for it.
More agents poured in. One tried to flank around the vending machines but Troy caught him, lifting him by the throat and smashing him down on the steps. The crack of bone echoed in the stillness. Another lunged at Dmitri with a baton, but Dmitri dropped him with a quick stab to the gut, blood blooming dark on the man’s tactical vest.
Through the smoke, I saw Ash firing, eyes wide, jaw clenched, his hands steady despite the gore on his knuckles. He put a bullet through another attacker’s shoulder, then ducked as a spray of bullets shattered the glass beside his head. He called to me, his voice hoarse, “Left side!” I spun, catching another agent’s approach. My shot went clean through his cheek, dropping him instantly.
Troy was breathing hard, one hand pressed to a wound on his side. He still managed to shoulder an agent into the third rail, sparks leaping as the body convulsed. The stink of burning flesh mixed with the chemical reek of spent powder.
Dmitri, nearly spent, tossed his last knife and hit an agent square in the collarbone. The agent fell, twitching, mouth opening in a silent scream. Ash moved to help him, ducking low and pulling Dmitri behind a column as bullets cracked above their heads.
Reddick was moving too, limping now, but still dangerous. He fired at me, then at Troy, keeping us pinned. I saw the look in his eyes—pure, feral desperation. He wanted Ash more than he wanted to live.
The last two agents tried a final push, advancing in a tight wedge, rifles ready. I sidestepped behind a pillar, waited for their flashlights, then fired point blank. My bullets punched through body armor and bone. The first agent fell face-first. The second managed a wild swing with his rifle before Troy clubbed himwith the butt of his own weapon, sending him sprawling across the tiles.
For a second, everything was silent except the hiss of steam pipes and the drip of blood onto concrete.
I pulled myself upright, shoulder burning. Ash was still crouched behind the counter, breathing fast, knuckles white around his pistol. Dmitri was slumped against the wall, knife in one hand, the other clamped to his thigh. Troy stumbled over, battered but alive, sweat running in bloody rivulets down his cheek.
Reddick stood in the middle of the carnage, blood leaking from his side and thigh, gun shaking in his hand. He looked at us all, then back at Ash, something lost and furious in his eyes.
Only then did the truth of what we’d done hit me. The air was thick with death, the bodies of men who never even had a chance sprawled across the tracks and tile. In the aftermath, with every muscle trembling, I kept my gun trained on Reddick.
Blood still dripped from Ash’s hands as we stood on the platform, the echo of gunfire ricocheting through tunnels thick with cordite and death. The emergency lights flickered, painting everything in hellish red and shadow. Troy checked the corridor for survivors; Dmitri pressed a rag to his bleeding thigh, face set in a mask of grim endurance. My heart was hammering, but I never let Reddick out of my sight.
He’d taken cover behind a pillar after the last volley, but now he stood, wounded, gun empty, hands shaking. There was a haunted look in his eyes, the look of a man who’d watched all his plans burn down around him—and was still trying to convince himself it hadn’t all been for nothing.
Ash stepped closer, chest heaving, collar gleaming with someone else’s blood. “You still want to save me, Detective?” His voice was ragged, raw with everything he’d just survived. “Ordo you just want to prove you’re better than the men you call monsters?”
Reddick’s jaw flexed, gaze flickering over our battered, bloodied group—Troy panting, Dmitri clutching a knife, me watching with a predator’s patience. “You know what he’s done to you, don’t you?” Reddick said, voice gone brittle. “He’s twisted your survival instincts. You think this is love, but it’s just trauma dressed up as devotion.”
Ash’s hand found mine, his fingers trembling but unyielding. “I know exactly what this is. I know who I chose, and I know what I’ve survived. I know you want to believe you’re different, but you’re just another man who thinks he’s entitled to decide what’s best for me.”
Reddick stepped forward, closer than safety allowed. His voice broke, years of grief and obsession fracturing on the edge of every word. “You have no idea how easy it is to convince yourself that saving someone gives you the right to their future.”
I saw it then—the desperation that made men dangerous, the way love could curdle into something sharp and ugly when denied. “Tell me about Rio,” I said, letting the name cut the air like a blade.
Reddick flinched, color draining from his face. For a heartbeat, he was nothing but broken memory. “How do you know that name?” he whispered.
I let the silence answer. “We know everything, Detective. About the partner you lost. About the ring that took him, the case that ruined you.”
The confession spilled out of him, raw and trembling. “He was my partner, my lover. They took him—tortured him for information about our investigations, then killed him when he wouldn’t break. I spent years chasing ghosts, trying to tear down the monsters who took him from me. I failed.”
I understood that kind of loss. I understood why it made a man like Reddick chase shadows, why it made him dangerous.
“And now you think saving Ash will redeem you for failing Rio,” I said. “That if you can just pull someone back from the darkness, maybe all that loss will finally make sense.”
Ash’s eyes softened—not with pity, but with clarity. “You’re not trying to rescue me. You’re trying to undo your own pain. You’re trying to make me into the man you couldn’t save.”