Chapter 9 - Blood on the Glass
Alexander shifted in an instant, the vulnerable protector transforming back into the lethal mob boss.
He released me and drew a heavy black pistol from the holster beneath his arm.
"Stay behind me," he ordered, his voice flat, emotionless, and absolute.
The power cut out with a violent snap, plunging the penthouse into near-total darkness, illuminated only by the frantic strobing of the red alarm beacons.
Down the long hallway, the sound of heavy gunfire echoed upward, rapid and deafening.
"Marco, status," Alexander spoke into the radio clipped to his collar.
"Two teams came up through the express service shafts," Marco’s voice replied over heavy static.
"We stopped the first wave at the forty-fourth floor."
"The second wave is at your door, boss!"
A massive explosion blew the reinforced steel entrance off its hinges, sending smoke and shrapnel flying across the marble foyer.
Alexander dragged me down behind the heavy mahogany desk, covering my body with his own.
The air instantly smelled of sulfur, pulverized drywall, and burning copper.
Three men clad in black tactical gear and carrying submachine guns swept through the shattered doorway, firing indiscriminately into the living room.
Windows shattered along the far wall, letting in the howling winter wind and the roar of the city far below.
Alexander didn't flinch.
He waited for the barrage to pause as the first gunman reloaded.
In a fraction of a second, Alexander leaned around the mahogany corner and fired three precise, rhythmic shots.
The lead gunman collapsed instantly, his weapon clattering across the marble.
"Spread out!" a voice shouted from the smoke.
"Find the girl! Boss wants the Whitcomb girl alive!"
Hearing those words ignited something wild and ferocious in my blood.
They still thought I was a prize to be collected.
A piece of property to be traded among gangsters.
Alexander fired two more rounds, forcing the remaining intruders behind the decorative stone pillars.
"I have three bullets left in this clip," Alexander whispered to me, his breath hot against my ear.
"There is an emergency staircase behind the bookshelf."
"I am not leaving you," I whispered back, gripping his sleeve.
"Emily, listen to me—"
"No!" I hissed, locking my eyes with his.
"You promised you would let me fight!"
Alexander stared at me for half a heartbeat, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, compact revolver.
He pressed it firmly into my hand.
"Safety is off," he said, his voice entirely steady.
"Point, pull, and don't hesitate."
Before I could answer, a tactical grenade skittered across the floor, spinning toward our position.
"Move!" Alexander roared, shoving me violently sideways as the flashbang detonated.
A wall of blinding white light and a concussive shockwave slammed into my senses, ringing through my skull like a sledgehammer.
I hit the floor hard, rolling onto my stomach.
Through the ringing in my ears, I saw a towering mercenary step out of the smoke, raising his rifle directly toward Alexander, who was struggling to clear his vision.
There was no time to think.
No time to be afraid.
No time to remember the meek, submissive wife Derek had tried to forge.
I raised the compact revolver with both hands.
I didn't close my eyes.
I pulled the heavy trigger.
The recoil bucked violently through my wrists as the gunshot barked through the ruined room.
The mercenary grunted, staggering backward as the bullet caught him in the shoulder.
Alexander seized the opening, launching himself forward like a panther, tackling the man to the floor and disarming him with brutal, terrifying efficiency.
A sickening snap echoed through the room, and the gunman stopped moving entirely.
The smoke began to clear, drifting out through the shattered windows into the cold night sky.
Silence fell over the destroyed penthouse, broken only by the wail of sirens rising from the streets below.
Alexander stood up slowly, blood smearing his cheek, his suit torn to shreds.
He looked at the dead man on the floor, then turned his gaze toward me.
I was still kneeling on the carpet, the smoking revolver gripped in my trembling hands.
He walked over, knelt in front of me, and gently wrapped his large fingers around the cylinder of the gun, easing it away from my grip.
"You shot him," Alexander whispered, his voice filled with an awe that bordered on reverie.
"He was going to kill you," I breathed, my whole body shaking as the adrenaline began to bleed away.
Alexander didn't answer with words.
He pulled me into his chest, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his powerful arms wrapping around me so tightly I could barely draw breath.
I buried my face in his torn shirt, inhaling the scent of gunsmoke and cedar, and held on with everything I had left.
"Boss!" Marco came running through the shattered doorway, bleeding from an arm wound but holding his weapon high.
"Building is secure."
"The Falcones' hit squad has been completely eliminated."
Alexander pulled back slowly, his hands resting on my shoulders.
His pale blue eyes were darker than midnight, burning with an unholy vengeance.
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"Call every captain in the city, Marco," Alexander commanded, his voice cold enough to freeze water.
"Tonight, we hunt the Falcones."
