Chapter 73 *
Scarlett's POV
The leader's face went red. Then purple.
He raised his rifle. Started firing.
I dove behind the desk. Bullets tore through the wood. Splinters everywhere.
I came up. Fired back. Three-round burst.
He ducked. Rolled behind a filing cabinet.
We were both trapped. Him on one side of the room. Me on the other.
This was going to get ugly.
I leaned out. Fired. He returned fire immediately.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
The office filled with gunsmoke. The smell of cordite. Ringing in my ears.
Patterson curled up behind the desk. Smart man.
I checked my magazine. Ten rounds left.
Shit.
The leader must've had the same thought. His fire got more controlled. Shorter bursts.
Conserving ammo.
I shifted position. Moved to the edge of the desk.
He anticipated it. Fired before I even showed myself.
Damn it.
My magazine clicked empty.
I dropped behind cover. Heart pounding.
Okay. Think.
Three dead guards on the floor. Each one had at least two spare mags.
The nearest body was about eight feet away. Behind an overturned chair.
I could make it.
Probably.
The leader fired again. Testing. Seeing if I'd return fire.
I stayed quiet.
"Out of ammo?" His voice echoed across the room.
I didn't answer.
"Come on. We can talk about this."
Still nothing.
He fired twice. Probing shots.
I waited until the echo faded.
Then I moved.
Rolled out from behind the desk. Slid across the blood-slicked floor toward the nearest body.
Gunfire erupted. Bullets sparked off the tile where I'd just been.
I grabbed the corpse's tactical vest. Yanked a magazine free.
More gunfire. Something hit my shoulder. Not a bullet. A ricochet. Still hurt like hell.
I dove back behind the desk. Slammed the fresh mag home.
Chambered a round.
Better.
The leader was moving too. I could hear his boots. Repositioning.
I popped up. Fired where I thought he'd be.
Empty air.
He came from a different angle. Three-round burst.
I dropped flat. Felt the rounds pass overhead.
This was turning into a war of attrition.
We traded fire for what felt like hours. Probably only fifteen minutes.
But in a gunfight, fifteen minutes is forever.
Every surface in the office was destroyed. Bullet holes everywhere. Glass shattered. Furniture torn apart.
My ears were ringing so loud I could barely hear my own thoughts.
I reached for another magazine.
My hand closed on empty pouches.
No.
I checked the other bodies. Crawled between them while he reloaded.
Every single magazine was empty or gone.
The leader must've figured it out at the same time.
His firing stopped.
Silence.
Just the ringing in my ears. And Patterson's ragged breathing behind me.
I stayed behind cover. Listening.
The leader's voice cut through the quiet.
"Looks like we're both dry."
I didn't respond.
"You're good," he continued. "Better than I expected. Military training?"
Still nothing.
"Doesn't matter. You're trapped. My guys downstairs will be up here any minute."
He was bluffing. Had to be.
If backup was coming, they'd already be here.
The leader reached down. Pulled something from his boot.
A knife.
Not some tactical folder. A real fighting knife. About seven inches.
He rolled his shoulders. Loosened up.
"Always preferred hands-on work anyway."
He started walking toward me. Behind me, Patterson whimpered. "Please... I gave you what you wanted..."
"Your friend's scared."
"He should be."
I walked over to one of the dead guards. Bent down. Pulled a knife from his boot sheath.
Smaller than the leader's. Maybe five inches.
I tested the weight. Spun it once around my fingers.
The leader's eyebrows went up.
"You know knife work?"
"A little." I moved forward. Putting distance between Patterson and the fight.
His eyes tracked the movement. When he shifted his stance, his collar pulled back slightly.
A tattoo. Just visible above his shirt line.
Eight-pointed star. Crude ink. Prison style.
Bratva.
Russian mob. Eastern European crime syndicate. They did high-value robberies, arms trafficking. Completely separate from the Five Families.
I smiled. Couldn't help it.
"Bratva, huh? Didn't know you guys were branching out into medical research theft."
He froze. Just for a second.
Then his expression changed. Surprise. Then wariness.
"How the fuck do you know that?"
"The tattoo's a dead giveaway. Eight points for eight years in a gulag. Classic Bratva prison ink."
His jaw tightened. "Who are you?"
"I already told you. Just one of the hostages you grabbed."
"Bullshit." He adjusted his grip on the knife. "You're a hitter. Professional contractor. Who the fuck hired you?"
I almost laughed.
"Nobody hired me. I'm just a pregnant college student who came here for a prenatal checkup."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"Believe whatever you want."
He studied my face. Looking for a tell.
"I've got money," he said finally. "Lots of it. Whatever you're being paid, I'll triple it."
"Not interested."
"Quadruple."
"Still not interested."
His expression darkened. "Then you're an idiot."
"Maybe."
"Your funeral." He lunged.
Fast. Knife aimed at my throat.
I twisted sideways. His blade missed my throat by inches.
Came up with my own knife. Aimed for his neck.
He blocked. Grabbed my wrist. Twisted hard.
Pain shot up my arm. I dropped the knife.
Shit.
He kicked it away. Grinned.
"Not bad. But not good enough."
He came at me again. Fast. Controlled.
This guy wasn't some street thug. He knew what he was doing.
I ducked under his swing. Rolled behind an overturned filing cabinet.
Glass crunched under my feet. Beakers. Test tubes. The whole office was destroyed.
He followed. Relentless.
I grabbed a broken chair leg. Swung it at his head.
He caught it mid-swing. Yanked it out of my hands. Threw it aside.
Then he was on me.
His knife came down. I blocked with my forearm.
The blade cut deep. Blood everywhere.
I kicked his knee. Hard.
He grunted. Stumbled back.
Gave me just enough space to move.
I circled around him. Kept my breathing steady.
He was bigger. Stronger. Had better reach.
But I was faster.