The scar-faced man saw his opening. He wrenched free from Adrian’s grip, fingers flying to the pistol tucked at his hip.

Adrian didn’t hesitate and fired.

Just a moment ago, when the scar-faced man had opened the door upstairs to get food, the masked man suddenly pressed a gun to his head.

He pretended to cooperate, insisting the masked man enter the basement alone.

The scar-faced man led him into the makeshift operating room, planning to take care of him, slap on the mask, and slip away in the confusion. Three coughs were the signal for their group.

His plan almost worked—until the masked man moved faster than anyone expected.

The scar-faced man didn’t get a single word out before he slumped, his weapon clattering to the floor.

“Boss!” the men screamed.

Panic spread. Without orders, the crew fell apart, scattering wildly, rage and fear mixing into a chaotic frenzy. All they could think about was avenging their fallen leader.

Bullets ripped through the air toward Adrian.

He didn’t flinch. Using the dead man’s body as cover, he charged forward through the gunfire, taking down thug after thug as they tried to stop him.

“Get back! Don’t come closer!” a short, pudgy man with pockmarked skin barked.

He stumbled backward, terror written all over his face. He had nowhere to go until his back hit the cold metal of the operating table.

Standing frozen, he stared at the masked man who had just killed their boss and all the others. He realized he was alone now, next on the list.

How had it come to this? They had done this work for years and dealt with plenty of police. They had even fought with rival gangs before.

But this was the first time they faced a silent killer, someone who had just wiped them out without saying a word.

His back pressed harder against the crude table as if the cold metal could swallow him whole. His hand brushed against the arm of the unconscious woman lying there.

For a wild, hopeful second, he wondered if she had brought backup.

Acting on that desperate flicker of hope, he yanked Sophie toward him and shoved the barrel of his gun against her temple.

“Take another step and she dies!” he barked.

For a moment, the masked man didn’t move.

Then, to the pockmarked man’s surprise, he finally spoke. “Let her go and I’ll let you walk away.”

So it was true. He had come for her.

The pockmarked man growled, “And why the hell should I believe you?”

In answer, Adrian shoved aside the lifeless body of the scarred leader, letting it hit the floor with a heavy thud.

He stepped closer, lowering his weapon and raising both hands in plain sight. “Now,” he said evenly, “let her go.”

For a moment, the man’s grip loosened. Doubt flickered. But then the rage returned, fueled by the image of his fallen buddies.

This man had hunted them down, leaving him cornered like a rat. Even if he ran, he wouldn’t live long.

So it was better to try for revenge while he still could.

Slowly, the pockmarked man eased the gun away from Sophie. In that split second, Adrian’s guard dipped, and the man whipped the barrel toward him and fired.

But Adrian had already read the move. He didn’t duck. Instead, he slammed forward, breaking the man’s arm with a sharp twist.

With the other hand, he seized the gun, shoved it up, and fired. The man’s head snapped back; he slumped, loosening his grip on Sophie.

Adrian caught her as she went limp.

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused. “Adrian… am I dreaming?” she whispered.

He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “I’m here, love. I came for you.”

Seeing her struggle, he closed her eyes with one careful hand. In a low, soothing whisper, he told her, “Rest now. When you wake up, we’ll be home. Home together.”

.

.

.