Page 79 of Shadow Waltz

He pulled the backup piece from his ankle holster and tossed it to me without hesitation. We were pressed against the concrete planter, using it for cover as bullets chipped the stone around us. The weight of the gun settled in my palm like an old friend. I thumbed off the safety.

“Cover the right,” Troy barked, already moving.

The world exploded as another volley hit the car, metal shrieking as bullets chewed through the door. Glass shattered, pelting my arms and neck with diamond splinters. I rolled, pressing myself flat against the asphalt, the impact rattling my bones.

Three men in black, visors down, swept up from the alley—professional, military bearing, rifles tight to their shoulders. Troy didn’t hesitate. He popped up from behind the rear bumper and fired twice—two short, perfect bursts that caught the lead man in the throat, another in the chest. The third swung his rifle toward me. Instinct, more than anything learned, took over. I snapped up my arm and squeezed the trigger, the gun bucking in my hand. The first shot went wide, the second punched through his bicep. He staggered. Troy finished him with a single round to the temple, blood spraying across the ruined trunk.

“Move!” Troy was on his feet, yanking me upright with a bruising grip.

The side street was chaos now, shouts and orders echoing from unseen mouths. A drone zipped overhead. The car was useless, but the side entrance to a narrow service corridor beckoned. We sprinted for it, feet pounding. My lungs burned, every step a prayer.

A figure appeared at the mouth of the alley, his rifle raised. I didn’t think—just threw myself low, sliding across gravel, and kicked out at his knees. He went down hard. I was on him beforehe could recover, heel slamming into his jaw. The gun clattered away. He reached for a sidearm—I punched him in the throat, grabbed the pistol, and fired point-blank. His body went limp.

I glanced up. Troy was already a blur—moving with the fluid, unstoppable force of someone who had killed before, and often. He charged a knot of attackers, dropping one with a shot to the kneecap. As the man fell, screaming, Troy snatched his own knife from his belt and slashed across a second’s throat in a single, practiced arc. Blood sprayed the brick wall. He didn’t even break stride.

For a split second, I froze, the scene burning itself into my brain. Troy wasn’t just fighting—he was hunting, his movements precise, every decision lethal.

A bullet slammed into the concrete near my head, snapping me back. I dove for cover behind a trash bin, heart racing, body buzzing with adrenaline.

“On your left!” Troy called.

I twisted in time to see another soldier, not much older than me, creeping along the wall, gun aimed. My mind flashed to every dirty fight in every alley, every desperate scramble for survival. I grabbed a chunk of brick and flung it at his head. He flinched, and I used the split second to close the distance, slamming his wrist against the wall. The gun dropped. I grabbed it, fired, and felt the sickening jolt as his body went slack.

No time to think. No time for guilt. Just survival.

The alley erupted into violence. Gunfire cracked overhead, chewing through the bins. I pressed myself tighter against the metal, hearing bullets ping and ricochet. Troy ducked behind the doorway, signaling me forward.

“We’re not getting out the way we came,” he said, voice low. “We cut through the service tunnel. Can you run?”

“Can you keep up?” I shot back, a flash of my old bravado slipping through the fear.

Troy’s mouth twitched—something almost like a smile. “Go.”

We sprinted for the side door, but another group of mercenaries rounded the corner. Six this time, moving in formation, guns raised. I counted silently—six against two, no cover, nowhere left to run.

“Get ready,” Troy murmured.

He tossed something—a flashbang—over their heads. The world went white, deafening. The mercs reeled, hands flying to their faces. Troy was already moving. He shot the first in the kneecap, sending him crashing into his own men. The second dropped his weapon and tried to run. Troy tackled him, slammed his head against the concrete, and didn’t stop until the man’s skull split.

I moved in a blur and fired into the chaos. Two shots—one missed, the other caught a man in the thigh. He screamed, clutching at the wound, but I didn’t stop. I kicked his weapon away and cracked him across the face with the butt of my gun.

Troy was everywhere—kicking, punching, shooting. He broke one man’s neck with a brutal twist, then used the corpse as a shield as the last mercenary fired wild, panicked shots. Troy fired over the body, hitting him twice in the chest. He dropped, blood painting the pavement.

The street was a slaughterhouse. I stood panting, hands shaking, the reality of what we’d just done crashing down on me. Bodies littered the alley. Blood pooled in the gutters.

But there was no time to process. The sound of approaching boots—more coming.

Troy wiped blood from his brow, eyes scanning the chaos with the cool detachment of a predator. “You good?”

I nodded, adrenaline still surging. “I’ve been worse.”

He barked a laugh, then slapped a magazine into his gun. “You fight like someone who never had a home.”

I shrugged, managing a grim smile. “Never did.”

The helicopters circled lower, searchlights sweeping the alley. I pulled Troy toward the service door, the steel heavy under my fingers. I shot the lock, kicked it open. We stumbled inside, the tunnel beyond dark and narrow.

“Move,” Troy urged, pushing me ahead.