Page 289 of Operation: Defiance

Seven.

Light and pressure and sound rattle my bones, even through the earplugs. My chest stutters. Nausea slams into me. I ignore it.

My elbow finds the back of a knee. The guard to my left crumples. I open my eyes, spin, and drive my fist into his throat. He claws at his neck, his windpipe crushed. He won’t get back up again.

The second guard has his hands over his eyes. Planting one foot, I drive my shoulder into his solar plexus. My bad shoulder. The objection it files is loud enough I hear my own scream through the foam and over the ringing in my ears and the shouts erupting all around me.

Asher. I have to find Asher.

My eyes are stinging. The smoke hasn’t cleared and the lobby is chaos, but I find him. Fifteen feet away.

Near the doors, a guard on the ground starts to stir, and I smile. He took one of them down with him. Exhausted, cuffed, he still managed to take one of them down. Inara will finish the job. I hope.

The other guard is dragging Asher backward by one ankle, headed for the security door. Asher is fighting—kicking, twisting, swinging his bound hands at anything he can reach. Every second he can buy is one I need.

“Hit the buzzer!” Voss shouts. Even the earplugs can’t mask the desperation in his voice. He bangs on the thick, steel door. “Reinforcements! We need⁠—”

I yank out one of the foam plugs, the sudden pressure change making my vision waver. The lobby glass spiderwebs. Voss goes down, clutching his leg. The sound he makes isn’t a scream. It’s agony and defeat and terror.

The guy at the desk dives for the floor.

Asher is still fighting, but his movements are slower now, clumsy. With a rough tug on his leg, the guard slides him a full five feet.

No!

I take off at a run, then slam into him at full speed, but he’s twice my weight, and barely stumbles. His punch catches me above my ear, knocking the other foam plug free. I grab his wrist in one hand, his elbow in the other, and wrench them in opposite directions.

He fists the back of my hoodie. My heels leave the ground.

Asher’s bound hands slam into the back of his ankle. Not hard enough to bring him down, but enough he has to shift his weight, and I pitch forward against his chest.

My gaze locks on his. I smile and drive my knee into his groin. With a high-pitched yelp, he stumbles back until he hits the security desk.

A bright red stain blooms over his heart. He gasps, stares at the blood, and collapses.

Asher is on the floor three feet away, chest heaving, arms limp, eyes glassy.

I crouch down and touch his cheek. “I’m getting you out of here.” The words are rough and strained, but they’re enough he blinks up at me.

His legs curl toward his body. I help him roll onto his knees, get his feet under him, and duck under his bound arms. “Up. With me.”

The effort pulls a sound from my lips. His legs are doing little more than keeping him balanced while I move us one step at a time toward the front door.

To our left, the only guard still alive tightens a belt around Voss’s upper thigh. The doctor screams in pain.

Good. But not good enough.

I pull the ceramic knife from my pocket, depress the mechanism, and let the snick speak for itself. The guard jerks his head up, his eyes wide.

Arching my brows, I adjust my grip on the blade. His gaze moves from the shattered glass window to me. He rises, lifts his bloody hands, and steps back.

One more step. Two, and we stop next to Voss.

His calm, clinical superiority is gone now. The bleeding has slowed with the tourniquet. Enough he might live if someone gets to him in the next few minutes.

“Please.” His voice is broken. “Please, I can’t⁠—”

I look up at Asher. I don’t need his permission for what comes next, but I want to know we’re on the same page. He manages the smallest of nods.