Page 12 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

I can't risk a firefight in this narrow corridor with a civilian two feet behind me. A ricochet off the concrete would tear right through her.

I have to force the engagement on my terms. I have to weaponize the proximity.

I slide the SIG into its holster, freeing my right hand. I grip the combat knife tight, the serrated edge catching the red glow of the emergency lights.

The second hitter rounds the corner, his submachine gun raised to his shoulder.

He never establishes a line of sight. Lunging out of the shadows, I close a gloved hand around the barrel of his weapon and rip it upward—the muzzle swings toward the ceiling just as he pulls the trigger.

A burst of automatic fire tears through the backstage dark, shredding the canvas rigging above us.

I drive my knee into his chest plate, forcing the air from his lungs. As he folds forward, I bring the knife down, driving the blade into the gap between his Kevlar collar and the base of his skull.

He drops, his nervous system severed.

The third hitter is right behind him. He doesn't hesitate. He drops his primary weapon to its sling and draws a combat blade from his hip.

He lunges.

I pivot, throwing my shoulder into the attack. The tip of his blade slices through the Kevlar paneling over my ribs, grazing the skin beneath in a burning line.

I shelve the pain.

I trap his arm against my side and lock his wrist until bone snaps. He screams, raw, as I twist my hips and drive the heel of my palm up into the base of his chin.

The crack of his jaw echoes in the narrow corridor. His eyes roll back. He collapses, hitting the concrete with a lifeless thud.

The corridor falls quiet, save for the fire alarms in the distance.

I step back, chest heaving, the knife slick with blood. I wipe the blade against the thigh of my tactical pants—an ingrained motion—and slide it back into the chest sheath.

I look over my shoulder.

The ballerina is where I left her, pressed against the wooden flat, her breath coming in spasms. She just watched me kill three men at arm's length. The violence of my world is foreign to her.

I expect her to run from me. I expect her to scream.

Instead, she pushes off the wall. Trembling, stripped of her stage grace, she takes a deliberate step toward me.

"We're clear." I keep my voice low and level, projecting a calm I don't feel.

"Wraith." Hutch's voice crackles in my ear, the tension thick. "Local police are securing the lobby. The Consortium is pulling back their perimeter, but they're leaving a blockade on the surrounding streets. Walk out the front door and you'll be engaged by fifty armed hitters. Find a secondary route down."

"Copy." I lock onto the steel fire door at the far end of the corridor. "Emergency stairwell. Feeds down to the rear loading docks."

I turn back to the ballerina.

"We're moving." I hold her gaze. "Stay behind me. Do not break visual contact with my back."

She nods, sharp and jerky.

We move down the corridor, stepping over the dead. My hands want to shake now that the fight is done. I don't let them.

We reach the steel fire door.

I wrap my gloved hand around the handle and brace my shoulder against the door, ready to breach the stairwell and whatever hell is waiting in the descent.

"Wait."