Page 16 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

The rounds tear through the air and slam into the cinderblock wall inches from the hitter's head, showering him in concrete dust and debris.

The hitter flinches, his weapon jerking off-target as he throws his arms up to shield his face, stepping back toward the open doorway.

It's all the opening the man protecting me needs.

He pivots, the combat knife flashing in the dim light. He closes the distance and drives the blade deep into the gap in the hitter's tactical vest.

The man collapses.

The stairwell goes still, save for the ragged sound of our breathing.

He turns, his eyes locking onto me. He's covered in blood, his chest heaving. He stares at the handgun still gripped in my extended hands. He realizes what I did. I didn't panic. I didn't freeze. I bought him the seconds he needed.

He doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to. The respect in his gaze is a first deposit in the fragile currency of our trust.

"Drop it." The order is quiet.

I engage the safety and place the weapon on the concrete floor.

He doesn't waste a second. He moves to the fallen hitters, his hands working over their tactical gear. He strips their spare magazines, shoving the ammunition into his rig. He retrieves the handgun I set down, checks the chamber, tucks it into his belt, and scoops up a fallen submachine gun.

"We're moving." He steps over the bodies, pushing the fire door open. "Fourth-floor access corridor. Service elevator shaft takes us down to the sub-basement."

We run.

We navigate the labyrinth of maintenance tunnels, bypassing the police presence in the main lobby. We breach the sub-basement, slipping through a heavy steel grating and out into the sweltering reality of the Bangkok night.

The heat hits me like a physical wall, thick with exhaust fumes, street food, and rotting garbage. The neon lights of the city bleed through the torrential rain, washing the narrow alleyway in psychedelic color.

We're exposed.

Sirens wail in the distance, a chorus of approaching police cruisers. Armored vehicles idle at the mouth of the alley, blocking the main avenue. Armed patrols sweep the perimeter, their tactical flashlights cutting jagged swaths through the rain.

"Patrol." He grabs my arm, pulling me back into the deep shadows of the alley.

Two hitters move down the narrow passage, weapons raised, their flashlights sweeping the garbage dumpsters and dark alcoves. Fifty feet away and closing.

There's nowhere to run. We're boxed in.

He pulls me into a cramped recess between two overflowing dumpsters. The stench of rotting garbage is overpowering, but the shadows are deep.

"I'm going to cover your mouth." His voice is a harsh rasp against my ear. "Don't move. Don't make a sound. We're a couple making out in the dark. Sell it."

Before I can process the command, he presses me against the damp brick wall. His frame envelopes mine, blocking me from the sightline of the approaching patrol. His calloused hand clamps over my lower face, pressing my head back against the brick. He lowers his head, pressing his lips against the back of his hand to simulate the embrace.

The physical proximity is overwhelming.

He's pressed against me, the hard plates of his Kevlar vest digging into my chest. He's enormous, yet he holds himself with restraint, keeping his weight from crushing me.

Through the thin fabric of my leotard, his pulse races against my skin. His chest heaves with every ragged breath. His skin radiates heat against the cold rain soaking my clothes.

He isn't a machine. He isn't an unfeeling monster. He's a man, fighting to keep me alive.

The beam of a tactical flashlight sweeps past the edge of the dumpsters. The footsteps pause, lingering a few feet away.

They're going to see us.

Raw survival instinct surges through me. He wants us to look like a couple making out in an alley. But his posture is too rigid. His hand over my mouth is too tactical. If they look closely, they'll see a hostage situation, not a romantic encounter.