Page 8 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

Black spots dance across my vision. The world spins, dissolving into a blur of screaming patrons and strobing lights.

I fight the encroaching darkness and force my eyes open.

Through the haze, the heavy steel doors of the service elevator slide shut, severing my view of Andrea's thrashing limbs.

They're gone.

They came for me. The sniper killed anyone who touched me.

So they took Andrea instead.

And I failed to stop them.

The fire alarm triggers. The shrill wail of the sirens drowns out the screams of the audience. White strobe lights flash from the ceiling, turning the massacre in the solarium into a stuttering, horrific silent film.

I roll onto my side, clutching my bruised ribs. Every breath is a knife twisting in my chest.

I have to get up. Find the elevator. Get her back.

But my body betrays me. The force of the kick sends my nervous system into shock. My vision narrows to a strobing tunnel.

The stampede of panicked patrons tears through the emergency exits. Muffled gunfire echoes from somewhere deep in the building—the venue's security team engaging the retreating gunmen.

I try to push myself up, but my arms collapse.

I lie on the bloody floorboards, trapped in the nightmare. Every time I close my eyes, Andrea's terrified face disappears behind the heavy steel doors.

Time goes strange.

The stampede thins. The screams drain down the emergency stairs floor by floor until only the alarm is left, shrieking at an empty theater. Somewhere far below, gunfire stutters, stops, starts again. Stops for good.

I count my breaths the way I count music—four in, four out, the way I breathe through pain in the studio—and lose the count somewhere past thirty. The strobes keep flashing. The dead man beside me stays dead. Acrid smoke drifts across the stage in slow sheets, and I watch it curl through the light like a corps de ballet. The thought is wrong. My mind has come loose from the moment, and I can't drag it back.

I surface. My cheek is pressed against the wood. I don't remember lying back down.

I drag air into my bruised lungs. I force my palms flat against the boards.

Move.

I push myself onto my hands and knees.

Then a shadow separates from the smoke.

It falls across me, massive, blotting out the strobing stage lights.

I freeze.

The measured tread of tactical boots approaches across the stage. Nothing like the panicked, rushing steps of the gunmen. Slow. Deliberate.

They came back to finish it.

I raise my head, my vision clearing just enough to take in the nightmare towering over me.

Six feet four of solid muscle wrapped in dark, dust-covered tactical gear. A rig covers his chest, laden with spare magazines and a serrated combat knife. He isn't wearing a balaclava. His face is exposed, lit by the harsh flashing lights.

A face carved from granite. Sharp angles. A scar cuts through the dark stubble along his jawline. His eyes are icy gray—the color of a winter sky right before the storm breaks.

A massive sniper rifle hangs from his right hand, the barrel still smoking.