CHAPTER 8: CORNERED
Dean was holding a heavy black revolver, his face battered, his nose crooked and swollen from where Marcus had slammed him against the bathroom wall. Blood was smeared across his torn designer shirt, but his eyes were bright with a terrifying, manic energy.
“Come out, Maya,” Dean sneered, stepping closer to the printing press. “Let’s talk about our divorce terms. You give me the location of Marcus’s personal drive, and I might tell these gentlemen to let you walk away.”
I didn't answer. I pulled my legs tighter against my chest, my thumb resting over the pistol’s safety, feeling the rain dripping from my hair onto my neck.
“You always thought you were better than me,” Dean continued, his voice dropping into a harsh, bitter whisper as he circled the machine. “With your quiet little smile, pretending you were the victim. I gave you a roof over your head! I provided for you!”
“You beat her because you’re a weak, pathetic coward,” a cold voice echoed from directly behind Dean.
Dean spun around wildly, bringing his revolver up, but Marcus was already there.
Marcus emerged from the shadow of a massive steel pillar like a phantom. Before Dean could pull the trigger, Marcus lunged forward, grabbing Dean’s gun hand and twisting it brutally upward. A sharp report echoed as Dean’s revolver fired harmlessly into the high ceiling.
Marcus drove his elbow violently into Dean’s ribs, folding him in half, then delivered a brutal knee straight to his jaw. Dean crashed backward onto the concrete floor, dropping his weapon with a metallic clatter.
“Marcus!” I cried out, stepping out from behind the printing press.
“Get back, Maya!” Marcus yelled, turning toward me—
BANG.
A loud, terrible report shattered the air from the raised catwalk above.
Marcus stiffened instantly. A heavy 7.62mm rifle round caught him directly in the upper chest, punching clean through his tactical vest.
Marcus let out a ragged gasp, stumbling backward before collapsing onto his knees, blood instantly blooming across his dark uniform.
“No!” I shrieked, running toward him, throwing all caution to the wind.
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High on the catwalk, a tall man in a dark trench coat lowered a silenced sniper rifle, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. It was Marco Valenti—the syndicate chief’s enforcer.
“Good night, Agent Reed,” Marco called down, adjusting his grip on the rifle to line up a final headshot on my bleeding brother.
