Page 98 of Marked By the Devil

If I was carrying a new life inside me, I’d do all I could to keep him or her safe.

I crept down the stairs, checking every inch that it was clear.

No one ambushed me.

No one ran out.

No one was waiting for me…

Tense and slowly clearing the hallway and stairwell, I descended and kept my eyes open for any sign of someone who could have broken in.

Before I got to the last riser, one foot still in the air, I felt the air rush at me.

Someone was here. Someone was coming at me.

I didn’t think.

I didn’t assess or ascertain.

I acted.

It wasn’t a conscious motion. Relying on that innate sense of fight or flight, I moved on instinct alone and spun before trying to put my foot down. Bringing my knee up as I twisted, I slammed it into the attacker’s face. I was higher up still on the steps, and it gave me the perfect level to bash my knee into his face.

His hair lifted off as he grunted in pain. The toupee flopped up, and I let all the anger inside me fuel me into kicking his ass.

Smithson was a dead man walking for daring to break in here and sneak up on me.

If he could survive me right now, he’d only be prolonging his death sentence for when Viktor returned.

Because I couldn’t know if he’d come alone or not, I didn’t yell for a guard. I didn’t scream for help because if someone else was close, I’d be outnumbered.

Before he could even grab me around my waist, I brought my other leg up as soon as I landed on the other one.

A swift slam of my foot on the back of his knee had him crashing to the ground.

I leaped down, gun out as he rolled onto his back. He was lifting his gun to me, but I was faster.

I shot him. Dead center in the heart. Three times. Then twice in the head.

Blood gushed out from his broken nose.

His eyes glossed over, vacant, as his life ended.

With his arm done, his gun dropping to the floor, he released his last breath.

I heaved with mine, panting and frantic to stay calm.

I’d never killed before. I had only had a desk job until I was supposed to start as a field agent. In the name of the job or outside of it, I had never taken a life, and it sobered me instantly.

I’d killed someone.

I swallowed hard, staring at the man who’d tried to get me killed more than once.

It was wrong, in a general sense, to take a life. I knew that. But I hadn’t put myself in the category of a murderer by shooting Smithson.

It was self-defense.

It was protecting my unborn baby that I was convinced I had growing inside me already.