Page 58 of Web of Lies

"No." The word bursts from my throat. My hand twitches near my jacket, my pulse roaring in my ears. In one swift motion, I wrap my fingers around the pistol's grip and draw, raising it just as Jackson does the same.

His eyes narrow, the charm melting away, replaced by a predator's focus. "You're not a killer, Riley. We both know that."

"Try me."

"You?" He lets out a mocking laugh that makes my skin crawl. "You're a hacker. A fraud. You hide behind screens and codes, but out here?" He jerks his chin toward the gun in my hand, then flicks his gaze back up. "You don't have it in you."

My stomach twists, the anxiety crawling higher, threatening to choke me, but then something clicks.

His words. The way he spits them out is sharp and dismissive.

It's the same tone Noah and Kyle used when they pushed me during practice.

They taunted me because they knew it worked.

And that's exactly what Jackson is trying to do: throw me off my game.

I drag in a deep breath, forcing the panic down, pushing it into the pit of my stomach where it belongs.

"You want to find out?" I ask as I readjust my grip on the gun.

Jackson tilts his head, his smirk widening.

"You're trembling," he mocks, dragging the words out.

"I can see it from here. Your hands are shaking like you're about to cry.

And no one's here to protect you." His tone drops lower, sharp as a blade.

"I won't ask again, Riley. Give me the folder or you die . "

"I don't think so." The words cut through the night air, deep and distorted by a voice changer. The sound bounces off the concrete walls. Jackson jerks, his eyes narrowing as his body stiffens. "Two can play this game dirty," the voice drawls in a mocking singsong.

A shadow shifts along the edge of the scaffolding, moving with a fluid motion like a predator circling its prey.

I hold my breath as Kyle steps into the light.

He's dressed in all black, a thick hoodie hiding his broad frame, a balaclava masking his identity.

His gun gleams under the dim moonlight, aimed directly at Jackson.

"Fuck," Jackson hisses under his breath, as his aim shifts from me to the hooded figure.

"You know, Jackson, you talk a lot of shit for someone with his hand shaking worse than hers." Kyle chuckles low, mocking. A cold shiver runs down my spine, not from fear but from the way Kyle turns the tables on Jackson, mocking him in return.

"Who do we have here?" Jackson's voice falters. "A little friend of yours?"

"Even better," Kyle says, his voice distorted and low. He steps closer. "The Butcher himself."

Jackson's eyes widen, his gun jerking slightly as if he's not sure where to aim anymore. "You're bluffing," he mutters, his gaze flickering between me and Kyle. "He wouldn't come here for someone like her. He's not that stupid."

"Funny," Kyle says, tilting his head. "Because it looks like I am that stupid."

Jackson's nostrils flare as his confidence crumbles.

He shakes his head as his eyes lock on me.

"You really are a traitor, Riley," he spits.

"Not just to the department. To everything.

You made a deal with the devil. Do you think he'll be your hero?

" His words drip with venom, but for the first time, I don't feel their sting.

The man who thought he owned me is confused, furious that the Butcher is standing here, not to be handed over but to protect me. And God, it feels good.

"Hero?" he repeats after him, his tone dark and dripping with amusement. "That's not what I am. But I'm damn good at being your worst fucking nightmare."

I clench my fingers tighter around the handle of my gun and risk a glance at Kyle.

My jaw trembles, my heart fluttering in a strange, chaotic rhythm.

I'm not alone in this. He isn't my savior, nor is he some knight in shining armor.

Like he said, he's a nightmare. But he doesn't haunt me, but hunts the people who try to break me.

"Oh," Jackson breathes out, his eyes narrowing as the realization crosses his face.

His grin creeps back, wide and venomous.

"You actually feel something for him." He chuckles.

"That's perfect. That's fucking perfect.

You've got ten seconds to hand over that folder," Jackson snarls.

"Or I'll put a bullet through your friend's skull and let you scrub him off the rooftop yourself before I kill you. "

My heart slams against my ribs, panic clawing at my chest. I glance at Kyle again.

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't even twitch. It's as if having his life threatened is routine for him.

His shoulders are squared; his eyes locked on Jackson with the patience of a predator.

His fingers curl tighter around his gun, and I know he's ready.

"You really think you're in control here, Jackson? You've got nothing but a big mouth." Kyle says through a scoff.

Jackson sneers, flashing his teeth. "Don't test me. I'll drop you where you stand. You think your reputation scares me? I've dealt with worse men than you."

Kyle tilts his head. "I can only think of one person worse than me, and he's walking free."

Jackson's nostrils flare as his knuckles turn white around the grip of his gun. His eyes flick back to me, then to Kyle, like he's calculating which one of us he wants to shoot first.

"10," Jackson starts, his voice steady.

"You think counting makes you scary? That's kid stuff, Philips."

Jackson ignores him, his glare pinned on me. "9." The pause after stretches. "8," he says, dragging the number out. "7."

My pulse spikes, thundering in my ears. "Wait," I blurt out.

"Wrong answer," Jackson snaps. The gunshot cracks like thunder, the sound tearing through the night air.

My heart lurches as Kyle jerks back from the force of the bullet.

The scream that rips from my throat feels raw, tearing through me.

My vision tunnels, black creeping at the edges.

The folder slips from my hand, papers scattering across the floor.

Instinctively, my body moves before my mind can catch up.

My free hand laces around the one gripping my gun, steadying my hold, and I pull the trigger.

The shot explodes, the kickback slamming through my arms and shoulders, leaving my muscles buzzing.

The bullet rips into Jackson's shoulder, spinning him off balance.

He stumbles backward, blood spraying from the wound, soaking through his jacket.

I freeze, chest heaving with shallow gasps, the gun shaking in my trembling hands.

My eyes lock on him, horror and adrenaline crashing inside me.

But Jackson doesn't fall. He doesn't stop.

His face twists into something feral, pain blending with rage.

He drags himself forward, his boots scraping against the rooftop.

His teeth grit as he lifts his arm, blood dripping from his sleeve, his gun rising again.

"You stupid bitch," he growls, his voice thick with fury, as the barrel of his gun points at me.

"No." The word slips out in a whisper, barely audible over the pounding in my ears. Without thinking twice, I pull the trigger again, and the deafening explosion rips through the air. The recoil rattles through my bones as the bullet slams into Jackson’s other shoulder.

Another painful scream rips from his throat, and he crashes to his knees.

Suddenly, beside me, a guttural grunt draws my attention.

Kyle stumbles forward, his arm shoots up, and he pulls the trigger of his gun.

The shot splits the night. Jackson's body jerks violently, his face contorting as the bullet slams into him.

He collapses onto the rooftop with a heavy thud, but Kyle doesn't stop.

His finger squeezes the trigger again. And again.

And again. Each shot slams into Jackson's twitching body, the sound deafening, the recoil pounding through the air in rhythm with my racing heart.

Flesh tears, blood sprays dark against the plastic sheets flapping in the wind.

The stench of gunpowder mingles with the iron-rich scent of burning flesh in my nostrils.

Even when Jackson's head snaps to the side as a bullet pierces through his skull, even when the twitching slows, Kyle doesn't stop.

He keeps walking forward, step after step, unloading the rest of his magazine into the body at his feet.

The wet thuds of bullets tearing through meat until his magazine empties with a final click.

My chest heaves, my hands shaking violently around my gun. The sight makes my stomach twist, bile burning at the back of my throat. It's brutal. It's sick. And yet the relief that Kyle is still moving, still alive, slams into me so hard it knocks me off my feet.

The world stands still. The rooftop, the city beyond, even the night air—it all fades into nothing but the rush of blood in my ears and the violent thud of my heart hammering in my chest. My lungs seize, locking up and refusing to let in air.

Kyle turns from Jackson's shredded body, his steps heavy.

His eyes lock on mine, as if he hasn't quite broken out of his violent haze yet.

Slowly, his fingers curl into the fabric of his balaclava, and he yanks it off.

His face is tense, every twitch of the muscles around his eyes betraying the adrenaline running through him.

My gaze drags over his body, searching for any sign of blood. His black hoodie is torn, fabric stretched, and frayed where the bullet hit. My stomach lurches and a knot of dread forms in my chest. But there's no red. No bleeding.

"It's just going to be one hell of a bruise," he says, as if he read the panic written all over my face. He lifts it, revealing the dull black of a bulletproof vest with a small dent where Jackson shot him.

The gunshot echoes in my head, each one replaying louder than the last. My stomach twists so violently it feels like my insides are being wrung out. Nausea climbs up my throat, hot and sour. My eyes stay locked on Kyle, his face contorted, one arm wrapped tight across his stomach.

He was shot. He could've died.

The thought alone is enough to break whatever fragile control I had left. The weight of everything crashes into me all at once—the blood, the body, the smell of gunpowder still hanging thick in the air.

My body betrays me. I spin away from him, my knees bending as I fold forward.

The bitter taste of bile floods my mouth as the contents of my stomach force their way up, spilling onto the rooftop floor.

My chest heaves, my whole body spasming with every wave that rips through me.

I can't stop. Can't breathe. Can't think.

Suddenly, a warm weight presses against my back. Kyle's hand rests flat against my spine, rubbing slow, soothing circles as my body rebels, muscles spasming with every rush of acid up my throat.

"Easy, Baby," he murmurs. The distortion of the voice changer is gone now, leaving only his real voice. "It's okay. Breathe. I've got you."

"Is it over?" I whisper, gasping for air, the acid from the bile clinging to my throat and burning with every breath.

"Almost," Kyle says, and I tilt my head to meet his gaze. He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a small burner phone, holding it out to me.

"What is this?" My fingers curl around the device as I take it from him.

"The last step," he says with his gaze locked on mine.

I lower my eyes to the outdated device, thumb hovering before flying across the keys, and the old pixelated screen flickers to life, showing only one number.

My stomach churns as another wave of bile threatens its escape, but I press the call button, anyway.

It rings once. Silence. It rings again, and just as the sound fades, the call connects.

"Everything done?" Mr. Hunt’s familiar voice echoes from the speaker.

"Yes," I say, my free hand pressing against my chest. I straighten my spine, forcing myself to meet Kyle’s gaze.

"Wonderful." Hunt doesn't miss a beat. "Your file went live as planned. It’s already spreading, and I’m already receiving reports and messages."

My pulse spikes and my eyes widen as I reflect on his words. It worked. The file is out. The truth is out. It's really out there. All those hours hunched in front of my screens paid off.

"Thank you," I whisper, barely audible. My thoughts scatter, struggling to catch up with the whirlwind of everything that just happened.

"You’re welcome," Hunt replies. "But the credit goes to you." My throat tightens, and the words catch in it, forming a tight knot. "Now," Hunt continues, "do me a favor and get out of there. Cleanup is on its way. I want the two of you gone before they arrive."

"Yes."

There's a pause on the other end, followed by the faintest shift in his breathing before his voice softens. "Riley. You did well."

"Thank you, sir." My voice cracks, but I don’t care.

"You're welcome. We’ll speak again once the dust has settled."

"Yes."

With that, the call ends, and the soft beep of the dead line rings in my ear.

I slowly lower the phone, and my gaze drifts to Kyle, who looks at me with a hint of worry written on his face in deep lines creasing his forehead.

He lifts a hand and gently brushes a damp strand of hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear.

"Everything worked out," I say, my voice barely louder than a whisper. "That means it's over."

Kyle holds my gaze, the corner of his mouth pulling into the hint of a smile. "Once and for all," Kyle adds, his lips twitching into a hint of a smile. "You're free."

Free. The word hits me like a slap in the face. No more excuses. No more secrets, lies, or hiding. I'm not sure whether I feel relief or horror. Maybe it's both. But one thing is clear through it all: it's finally over.