Chapter 4 - The Cold Shot
Sparks cascaded from the overhead metal rafters as high-caliber rounds tore through steel storage shelves, sending thousands of cataloged police files fluttering into the air like burning snowflakes.
Adrian dragged me behind an industrial forklift just as a burst of automatic fire chewed through the concrete where we had been standing. He leaned out, fired three rhythmic, controlled rounds, and eliminated another Brennan gunman who was attempting to flank us from the loading bay.
"Davis is pinned down at the front gate!" Adrian yelled over the thunderous roar of the guns, reloading his magazine with mechanical speed. "There's an exit door fifty feet behind that shelving unit! Take the box and move!"
"I'm not leaving you!" I shouted back, gripping my handgun with white-knuckled intensity.
Across the room, the evidence box had landed near the edge of an elevated steel conveyor belt. The brass lighter had spilled out, gleaming brightly beneath the flickering emergency lights.
Ray Mercer was scrambling toward it, using the body of a fallen mercenary as a shield. "Cover me!" Ray roared to the remaining two gunmen. "Pin the boss down!"
Heavy rifle fire hammered against our forklift, trapping Adrian behind the heavy counterweight. He tried to lean out to take a shot, but a bullet grazed his right shoulder, ripping through his coat and drawing a sharp line of crimson across his flesh.
Adrian grunted in pain, dropping to one knee as blood soaked through his shirt.
"Adrian!" I screamed, lunging toward him.
"I'm fine," he hissed through clenched teeth, his face pale with exertion as he pressed his hand against the wound. "Mercer’s reaching the lighter. If he gets out the back door, Brennan wins. I can't get an angle from here!"
I looked through the narrow gap between the forklift tires.
Ray was eighty yards away, moving toward the open fire escape, holding the brass lighter aloft with a triumphant sneer. Between us lay a cross-breeze from the blown-out loading bay doors, a swarm of falling paper, and dim, strobe-like emergency lights.
Eighty yards. A moving target in the dark. With a handgun.
Breathing matters more than strength. My father's voice echoed in my head. And anger ruins aim.
The rage inside me didn't disappear; it condensed. It hardened into a cold, diamond-sharp point of absolute focus. The sound of the gunfire, the howling wind, the pain in Adrian's eyes—all of it faded into complete, deafening silence.
Target.
Breathing.
Trigger.
I stepped out from behind the forklift into the open aisle.
"Mara, get down!" Adrian roared, reaching for me with his uninjured arm.
I didn't flinch. I brought the pistol up with both hands, locking my wrists, planting my feet into the blood-slicked concrete. I inhaled the bitter smell of sulfur, let half the breath out, and tracked Ray Mercer's head as he stepped onto the metal threshold of the exit.
I squeezed the trigger.
Once.
CRACK.
Eighty yards away, Ray Mercer’s head snapped violently back. His arrogant sneer vanished as the bullet struck him squarely through the cheekbone. He collapsed like a puppet with severed strings, tumbling down the iron fire escape stairs into the icy alley below.
The brass lighter flew from his limp hand, bouncing against the concrete floor with a bright, metallic clatter before rolling to a stop beside my boots.
The final Brennan mercenary turned, saw his commander dead on the stairs, dropped his weapon in sheer panic, and fled into the night.
The warehouse went dead silent, save for the rhythmic dripping of water and the ragged sound of Adrian’s breathing behind me.
I lowered the pistol, the smoke curling from the barrel, my hands completely steady.
Adrian pulled himself up using the forklift frame, his wounded shoulder bleeding freely, his gray-blue eyes staring at me in total, awe-struck reverence. He walked toward me, his boots crunching on broken glass, and stopped an inch away.
He looked down at Ray Mercer's body, then down at the brass lighter, and finally into my eyes.
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"You really don't miss," Adrian whispered, a faint, breathless smile touching the corner of his lips.
"I told you," I answered softly, reaching down to pick up my father's lighter. "My father was a good teacher."
