Page 8 of Iron Roses
His eyes hold mine.
Then—
Bang.
The sound splits the world in half.
I scream. The kind that rips your throat apart. My knees hit the floor, hard, but I barely feel it.
His body slumps sideways in the chair. Blood spreads across his shirt. His eyes are open.
“Papà—”
I don’t even realize I’m crawling until my palms slide through blood. A hand grabs my collar and jerks me back again.
“Let her go,” the third man says. “We don’t need answers from her.”
The gun raises.
I’m too stunned to cry. I just stare at Papà’s body. The chair creaks as he slumps further. One hand dangles, twitching once, then still.
Another bang—
Not from them.
From behind.
The far window explodes inward in a rain of glass and cold air. A black boot smashes through first, landing square on the edge of the desk. The man attached to it vaults in, rifle raised, already firing as he hits the floor.
The first bullet punches through the shoulder of the man aiming at me. He jerks sideways, hits the bookcase hard, crashes into a shelf that caves in beneath him.
Another figure drops in behind the first. Rolls on impact. Comes up firing.
A third shape barrels in last. A woman. The collar of her coat flares around her shoulders as she lunges forward, faster than the man across from her can react.
He raises his gun. She slams her palm into the underside of his wrist. The shot goes wide, ricocheting into the ceiling. Her other hand whips upward—knife flash—she buries the blade in his shoulder, then twists. He screams.
Her elbow drives into his throat. He chokes mid-breath. His knees buckle, crashing to the floor just as her boot slams into his chest, sending him flat onto his back.
Across the room, the man who shot Papà reaches for his weapon again. She sees it and she pulls her gun and shoots. He drops before his hand gets close to the grip.
Then the gunfire stops. Just heavy breathing. Broken furniture. Smoke curling against the edges of the windows.
She turns to me. And now I see her fully.
Her face is clear. Eyes sharp. Mouth set. A scar curves just beneath her cheekbone like punctuation. Blood spatters her sleeves, but she doesn’t flinch.
I regain my senses and on instinct, I crawl to Papà.
He’s still. Pale. Eyes half-open like he was waiting for me and I came too late.
I reach for him, sobbing, but the woman grabs me under the arms.
“No—NO—let me go!”
“You’ll die if you stay!”
“I don’t care!” I scream. “He’s my father—he’s—he’s my father!”
