Page 106 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
“Fuck,” Ana says, breath sharp against my side.
I push her toward the narrow aisle and break the other way without speaking.
Boots pound forward. One man breaks from cover and cuts toward her side, weapon up. Another stays on me.
I step out just enough to take the angle and fire twice at the man clearing the doorway. He drops hard.
Another man moves into his place and fires low. He comes in fast, crouched, keeping close to the shelves.
I close the distance before he can settle.
The muzzle rises between us, close enough that I smell the oil on it. I knock it aside with my forearm and drive my shoulder into his chest. The shot goes off into the shelving behind me. Metal rings. Paper bursts.
He drives back into me, trying to bring the weapon in tight. We slam into the racks hard enough to shake them. The shelf hits my spine.
I bring my knee up and feel it connect. He grunts but stays upright. There’s weight under his jacket.
Another shape moves at the far end of the aisle. I catch the outline of a shoulder, the tilt of a head, but not a face. I twist, wrenching the gun down and away, and drive him into the shelf. The binders spill again, slapping the floor. He stumbles, recovers, and swings the muzzle toward the aisle Ana disappeared into.
I slam my forearm into his wrist and force the barrel off line before he can fire. I fire once into his torso at contact distance. The sound is wrong at that range, flat and heavy. He folds against me and slides down the shelf.
I don’t watch him fall. I turn because the others are already shifting, because Ana has to keep moving. She has already cleared the aisle and broken back into the corridor. I step out after her.
Three sets of boots push from the left. One holds the stairwell door. The elevator display is dead.
I hear the faint scrape of plastic against fabric as Ana slides the card into the pocket sewn inside her jacket. The zipper closes in one smooth pull. That’s all I need to hear.
A round takes the corner of the desk and wood bursts into my cheek.
“Go,” I say, and I don’t turn.
She doesn’t answer. I hear her move.
I step out and fire twice to the right, then once left, then push forward. I close the space, forcing them to shift. One man loses his footing and slams into the wall. Another tries to swing wide. I catch him high in the shoulder.
Ana moves at a steady pace, not running. She angles toward the exit I’m not blocking and pushes through the compliance doors without breaking stride. Her head stays down.
A man breaks left and shouts once. Another pivots to cut her off. I fire before his second step lands. He drops. Something hits my side hard and hot. My breath leaves me, but my legs hold.
I move forward.
Two men close in. They aim center mass and fire in tight bursts. I step inside their line before they can reset. One shot goes wide. I take the first in the throat at arm’s length. The second tries to pull back. I put a round into his chest and shove him aside.
The corridor fills with smoke and dust. Ana reaches the service stairs.
I cut the other way and reach the main stairwell door. I fire through the wired glass panel. The glass fractures and drops into the shaft. Someone shouts below. The echo comes back sharp. They’re already climbing.
I back away from the door and keep moving. I push toward the intersection where the hall narrows and the ceiling drops. The office layout here is older.
I hear Ana once more, not her voice, but the sound of a door opening. That tells me she’s taking the service stairs now. The ones without cameras.
Good.
A shot hits the wall beside my head. I fire back. Someone retreats. Someone else takes his place.
I hold my ground. I move fast toward the service stairs. The door has already swung shut behind her. A shot slams into the wall beside my head. Plaster bursts into my mouth. I fire back and keep moving.
I hit the service stair door with my shoulder. It gives just enough. I slip through and drag it closed as rounds strike the metal from the corridor side.
