Page 80 of Shadow Waltz

Inside, it was chaos. The tunnel twisted, concrete and old wiring overhead. I could hear voices behind us—orders, barking, the metallic clatter of weapons.

“We have to slow them down,” I said, glancing back.

Troy nodded. “Can you rig a trap?”

Years on the street, learning to use whatever was at hand. I spotted a maintenance panel and ripped it open, exposing a snarl of wires.

“Cover me,” I said, kneeling to work.

Troy took position at the corner, firing bursts down the hallway. I twisted wires together, yanked a fuse, jammed a metal rod between terminals. I didn’t know if it would hold, but it was enough.

The lights flickered, then exploded. An arc of electricity leapt from the panel, setting off a shower of sparks as the first of the pursuers rounded the bend. The lead man caught the brunt of it, screaming as the voltage threw him back. The others hesitated, giving us precious seconds.

“Nice,” Troy said, eyes wide with surprise.

“Learned from the best,” I panted, rising to my feet. “Old man in Queens who used to hotwire cars for kicks.”

We kept running. The tunnel opened into a storage room—crates, cleaning supplies, a utility sink crusted with rust.

Footsteps thundered behind us. Troy spun, firing as the first soldier burst through the door. Blood sprayed the wall. I kicked a crate into the path of the next, tripping him. Troy finished him with a shot to the head.

I ducked as a bullet whizzed past my ear, rolling behind a stack of crates. Another mercenary—bigger, faster, ruthless—tackled me from behind, pinning my arms. I bit down on his gloved hand, hard enough to taste blood. He cursed, loosening his grip, and I slammed my head back into his face. He reeled. I grabbed a broken mop handle from the floor and drove it into his gut. He folded over, and I cracked him across the temple, leaving him motionless on the ground.

More were coming. Troy's gun clicked—empty.

He rolled toward one of the downed attackers, grabbed the man's weapon, and checked the chamber.

“Stay close,” he said, chambering a round.

We fought our way through the labyrinth, every corridor a new gauntlet. Troy moved with terrifying grace, each motion efficient, deadly. He dropped one attacker with a palm to the nose—bone shattering, blood pouring. Another tried to grab me from behind; I spun, stomped his knee until it bent the wrong way.

Bodies piled up. Screams echoed through the darkness. The air was thick with gunpowder, the sharp tang of fear.

At one turn, a mercenary fired blindly, grazing my shoulder. I barely felt the pain, too focused on survival. Troy saw, rage flashing in his eyes. He gunned the man down without a word, then dragged me into cover.

“You with me?” he demanded.

“Always,” I rasped, pressing a hand to my bleeding arm.

He nodded, then kicked open the next door.

Light. The back exit.

But standing between us and freedom were three more mercenaries, rifles up, faces cold and unreadable. Their leader stepped forward, scar cutting through his eyebrow, gun trained on Troy.

“It’s over,” he said. “Surrender and maybe you’ll live.”

Troy didn’t hesitate. “You first.”

He fired, the shot catching the leader in the knee. In the chaos, I dove for the nearest gunman, tackling him to the ground. We rolled, fists flying, blood in my mouth. I kneed him in the gut and slammed my gun butt across his jaw. He stilled.

Troy dispatched the last two with brutal efficiency—one shot to the chest, one to the throat. The leader, bleeding out on the ground, tried to crawl away.

Troy approached, gun steady. “Who sent you?”

The man just spat blood, defiant even as his life ebbed away.

Troy knelt, eyes flat. “Last chance.”