Just fists and fury and fifteen years of buried history.
I strike first—a right cross that would shatter concrete. Granger slips it, counters with an elbow that catches my jaw.
Copper floods my mouth.
We crash together like storm fronts—all lightning and thunder and raw force. Every punch has killing intent. Every block costs blood.
I use my size, my reach. Try to overwhelm him with pure power.
He responds with surgical precision. Targets joints. Pressure points. Known weaknesses.
My ribs crack under his boot. His nose breaks under my knuckles.
We separate. Circle. Crash together again.
This isn't a fight anymore.
It's an execution.
The question is just... whose?
I see the shift in Granger's stance too late. The way his weight changes. The way his hand drops to his ankle.
A backup piece, small caliber, appears in his grip.
The barrel levels with my forehead.
"Any last words?" he asks, voice colder than the wind howling outside.
41
SLOANE
The gunshots pierce the silence like thunder.
Rapid.
Staccato.
Each burst feels like a knife in my chest. I press myself against the wall outside the room where Logan and Granger disappeared, hands trembling, ears straining to catch any sign of life beyond the gunfire.
Please be alive.
Please be alive.
Please be alive.
The mantra loops in my head, a desperate prayer to God who might be listening. The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoes through the door—brutal, unforgiving impacts that make me flinch. I can almost feel each blow, imagine Logan's face contorted in pain or determination.
Then... nothing.
Silence descends like a shroud.
My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I'm sure it must be audible. The silence stretches, endless and suffocating. Every instinct screams at me to move, to act, to dosomething.
But I force myself to stay still, remembering Logan's signal about the team.
Trust them. Trust him.
