Chapter 4 - The Gunmetal Chains
The assassin’s rifle swept across the room, the laser sight cutting through the darkness.
Larkin rolled over me, shielding my body with his own as he returned fire with his handgun.
The deafening pop of gunfire filled the small lounge, the smell of cordite burning my lungs.
Larkin’s shots forced the assassin to duck behind the shattered remains of the mahogany door.
"Stay down!" Larkin roared over the noise.
I didn't stay down.
I had spent three years hiding, and I was entirely done being helpless.
The assassin popped out from behind the door frame, aiming his rifle directly at Larkin’s exposed back.
I kicked off one of my steel-tipped stilettos, grabbing the heavy heel with my right hand.
I launched myself off the floor, sliding across the slick marble tiles.
Before the assassin could pull the trigger, I slammed the steel tip of my shoe directly into the side of his knee.
The man screamed in agony, his leg buckling under his own weight.
His rifle discharged into the ceiling, showering us in plaster and dust.
Larkin didn't hesitate for a microsecond.
He closed the distance, disarming the man with a brutal strike to the wrist.
Larkin drove the butt of his gun into the assassin’s temple, knocking him unconscious instantly.
Silence fell over the ruined room, interrupted only by the howling wind blowing through the shattered window.
Larkin stood over the bleeding man, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.
He turned slowly to look at me.
I was standing on one bare foot, holding my bloody stiletto like a battle axe.
"Remind me to never deny your vacation requests," Larkin said, his voice laced with adrenaline and awe.
I dropped the shoe, retrieving my composure as I brushed the plaster dust off my black silk dress.
"Who sent him?" I asked, looking down at the unconscious killer.
Larkin knelt beside the man, pulling the heavy tactical mask off his face.
The man was young, brutally scarred, and completely unfamiliar to me.
But Larkin’s face drained of all color.
Larkin grabbed the collar of the man’s tactical shirt and ripped it sideways.
On the assassin’s collarbone was a distinct, intricate tattoo of a coiled viper.
It was the exact same tattoo worn exclusively by Larkin’s personal, inner-circle guard unit.
"This is one of my own men," Larkin whispered, betrayal poisoning his voice.
"Thomas didn't just frame you," I realized, the horrifying truth clicking into place.
"He bought your entire security detail."
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"We aren't just under attack, Larkin."
"We are completely trapped inside a hotel surrounded by your own men, and every single one of them wants you dead."
