Chapter 152

Chapter 152
Alina's POV

As Adams's voice echoed through the factory, the gunfire beneath the scaffolding died down. Everyone looked up in unison, toward me—shoved onto the high platform.

And I saw Lowell.

He stood behind a pillar, the emergency lights carving his profile into a hard, cold line. His gun was still in his hand, not lowered.

"Put the gun down and surrender to us." Adams's voice came from behind me, hoarse but carrying an easy sense of control, as if this entire situation had been of his own design. "Otherwise I'll push her off. You've seen enough of the world to know what's down there—a pool of sulfuric acid."

My eyes flicked to the ground below. A section of the iron railing at the platform's edge had rusted through and broken away. Beneath it lay a wide expanse of dark liquid, its surface shimmering with the oily, iridescent sheen that the emergency lights caught.

That was the acid pool Adams spoke of—a leftover processing tank in the abandoned chemical plant. The acid had never been fully drained; it sat there quietly in the darkness, more than ten meters below.

"Lowell! Don't listen to him!" I thrashed hard, but the two men behind me pinned my shoulders down. "You can't put your gun down! You know what kind of man he is—he won't keep his word!"

But Lowell didn't hesitate for even half a second. He answered Adams in a ringing voice. "Fine. I'll lower my gun. Pull your men out, let mine leave. My life stays here—in exchange for her safety."

"Are you insane?!" My voice climbed higher. I could barely think; the words came out on pure instinct. "If you surrender your weapon, everyone here will die! Antonio won't let you go! He won't leave you a single thing! You can't do this!"

Behind me, Adams let out a low, quiet laugh. "You hear that, Lowell? That little pet you keep understands your situation better than you do."

"I understand my situation just fine." Lowell tilted his head up, his eyes fixed on me with concern, the dim yellow light throwing shadows across his deep-set features. "Pull your men out, and I'll sign over the west district project and every access code to the armory—all to Antonio. All assets transferred, all family power handed over. Whatever you want, I can give it to you."

"I don't want you to give them anything!" The moment I understood what he was saying, my voice turned shrill—I was practically screaming at him. "If you dare lower that gun, I'll never forgive you as long as I live! Do you hear me? Never! If you die here, I will never forgive you!"

Lowell just kept looking at me, calm across the dozen meters between us. His expression was more peaceful than in any moment I could remember.

"Begin clearing out."

After a long silence, he gave the order to the men behind him.

They hesitated, then began to retreat from their scattered positions, their footsteps spreading out across the empty factory floor like a tide pulling back.

Adams signaled to the men on either side, and his people started falling back too. The space inside the factory emptied fast.

"Don't." The word forced its way up my throat, but there was no strength left in it. A bitter ache spread through my chest.

Lowell let the gun slip from his hand. The metal struck the floor with a sharp clang that rang twice through the empty building before fading.

Then he began walking toward me, one step at a time.

And then the gunshot came.

The bullet flew from Antonio's pistol. When it struck his left leg, Lowell's body jerked violently, his knee buckling for an instant. He nearly went down.

The bullet had lodged in bone and flesh. I could see his whole body shaking with the force of the pain.

I was too anguished to make a sound. In my heart I prayed, over and over, that he would stop—that he wouldn't take another step toward me.

But then a second bullet tore through his shoulder, and a dark stain of blood bloomed across the gray-white fabric. Before he could react, Antonio's third shot hit his right leg. His body twisted, his balance gave out, and he crashed to the ground.

"Stop walking this way! You'll die!"

But Lowell acted as though he hadn't heard. When the worst of the pain passed, he braced a hand against a nearby pipe rack and hauled himself upright again. Blood ran down his trouser legs, dragging two broken trails of dark red across the rough concrete.

By the time he finally reached the base of the platform, he was shuffling forward, each step leaving a dark, wet print behind him. Seven or eight bullet wounds riddled his body, blood pumping from every one.

"Stop." My voice had gone completely hoarse now. Tears spilled from my eyes, mixing with the smell of dust and gunsmoke as they streaked down my face. "Do you hear me? Don't come any closer. Go back… go back…"

I watched him drag his two blood-soaked legs onward, toward me, and something inside me—something I'd held down to its very limit—finally snapped.

I curled my wrist inward. The small blade tucked inside my sleeve had been pressed against my skin for a while now. I'd been waiting for the right moment—but I couldn't wait any longer.

The sharp edge sliced through the rope's fibers. It cut open one of my fingers too; warm blood welled up from the tip. But I was past caring. The instant my hands tore free, I spun and slammed into the nearer of the two men behind me, at the same time driving my foot into Adams's gun hand. I put my whole body into that kick, and the pistol flew from his grip.

"Go to hell!"

I planted my hands on his shoulders, and before he could react, I shoved him toward the edge of the platform with all my strength.

Adams staggered back two steps. The rusted railing gave a shrill, splintering crack under his weight—then came the brief silence of a body in free fall, followed by a short, choked scream, blurred with the sound of water, that vanished quickly into the acid pool more than ten meters below.

I turned and ran down from the platform, my feet pounding over the rusted steel steps, my soles clattering against the metal.

Adams's men didn't come after me. Antonio had already retreated deep into the factory at the first gunshot. Now, seeing Adams fall into the acid, knowing everyone had wounded everyone else beyond recovery, he was already running for an exit in the opposite direction.

But before he fled, he reached back and threw a bank of valves along the wall. Heavy iron doors began sliding shut from both sides, groaning with the dull scrape of metal. A sharp, biting stench started filling the air—one breath and it felt as though flames were burning inside my lungs.

"Lowell!" I coughed hard and rushed to him. His body could no longer hold itself up; half his weight sagged against the pipe rack beside him. Blood had soaked through both trouser legs, pooling on the ground into a slowly widening stain. I reached out and gripped his arm—his skin was scalding, blood and sweat slick against my palm. "I'll get you out of here!"

He turned his head to look at me. His eyes were already bloodshot from the gas that filled the air, fine threads of blood seeping from their corners. He glanced at the iron doors Antonio had sealed, at the toxic gas hissing from the valves all around us, and shook his head at me. Then he lifted his hand, using the last of his strength to pull off his own coat, and pressed it over my nose and mouth. One hand held its edge, fitting the fabric tight against the contours of my face.

"What are you doing?" I reached up to pull the coat away and put it back over him, but his fingers were locked too tightly to break free. "You'll be poisoned too! Your eyes are already—"

"Don't move. My men are coming. This will let you hold on a little longer."

"You're telling me not to move?! Can't you see what state you're in? Keep this up and you'll die! Mm—!"

He didn't answer. His hand slid from the edge of the coat over my face and curved instead around the back of my head. Then he lowered his head, and his lips met mine.

His mouth tasted of blood. He was giving me oxygen from lungs that had already begun to starve for air.

My tears slipped from the corners of my eyes, ran down my cheeks, and seeped into the seam where our lips met—salt, mixed with the tang of blood.

I pressed my hand to his chest, against the shirt already soaked through with blood. Every inch of skin my fingertips touched was burning.

The toxic gas grew thicker and thicker, stinging so badly I couldn't keep my eyes open. Lowell had no protection at all; four streaks of blood ran from the corners of his eyes down his cheeks.

"I shouldn't have left," I said, the words escaping through the gap in our joined lips as I cupped his face, blood smearing across my fingers. "I shouldn't have doubted you, shouldn't have run off alone. I shouldn't have said those cruel things before, shouldn't have refused to see you. Forgive me—please forgive me…"

"I regret it," I said. "I've regretted it for so long—ever since the night I left the hospital…"

"Don't do this… you'll die like this…"

"I don't want you to die… we haven't even settled things between us… you can't do this…"

I didn't know how much of it Lowell could take in, because his ears had begun to bleed too.

The poison in the air grew denser and denser. His fingers, laced at the back of my head, slowly tightened, pressing me into his chest—just like that time on the cliff, using his body to shield me from harm.

The searing smell in the air kept thickening. I could feel my vision blurring, the sounds in my ears turning muffled, as though I were listening to everything through a thick wall of water. My ears itched; I raised a hand to touch them, and it came away covered in blood.

Lowell's heartbeat still carried through where it pressed against my forehead. It was the last sound I heard before I lost consciousness completely.