Charging In

Your boot hits the rusted door hard enough to tear it off its hinge. It crashes inward with a shriek of twisted metal—loud, sudden, and final. The Russians barely have time to turn.

CRACK.

One of them jerks sideways, half his skull exploding across the back wall. The sniper round came through the busted window before the sound reached your ears.

The other two react fast—military reflex, drunk or not. One lunges. The other reaches for his sidearm.

You charge the one closest—slam into him with everything in your body.

He’s bigger. Older. Experienced. You feel it in the way he absorbs your weight and redirects it, slamming your back into the wall hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. His fist comes fast—crashes into your ribs.

You spit blood and drive your forehead into his nose. He grunts, stunned.

The second one rushes you while the first stumbles.

You pivot—but too slow.

A punch crashes into your jaw. You spin with it, stumbling into a table that collapses under you. You roll fast, grabbing a broken chair leg, swing up just as the second Russian charges.

WHACK.

It connects with his shin—he drops to one knee.

You lunge, driving your elbow into his throat.

He chokes, and you hammer down with the chair leg again—once, twice, three times, until the wood snaps in your hand and he stops moving.

You turn—just in time to catch a boot to the chest.

You hit the floor.

The bigger Russian is back on you now, bleeding from the nose, face twisted in fury. He straddles you, starts raining blows—fists like bricks, slamming into your ribs, your jaw, your ear. You block what you can, but he’s heavy and you’re winded.

His hand reaches for your throat.

You go for his eyes.

Your thumbs dig deep, brutal, feral—he howls, thrashing. You use the moment to shift your weight, bucking him to the side. You scramble, reach for your blade, and plunge it into his side.

He jerks. Twitches.

You hold it there until the fight leaves him.

Then it’s quiet.

You stagger to your feet—blood on your face, knuckles shredded, your body screaming with every heartbeat.

You limp over to her, still tied, still barely conscious.

Her swollen eye flutters open, and for a moment—just a second—she sees you.

Then she lets go.

You stumble toward her, lungs rasping with every breath, vision swimming from the fight. The bodies around you don’t move. You don’t check. You know they’re not getting up.

Norah is slumped in the chair, wrists bound, blood dried on her arms, her chest barely rising. Her face is a ruin—cut, bruised, swollen beyond recognition—but her breath is there.

You search one of the corpses—the first one you dropped. His belt. His pocket. You find the keys. Your fingers shake as you undo her restraints.

Her body slumps forward into your arms the second she’s free. She groans, barely conscious, her voice dry, shredded.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, lifting her slowly. “You’re safe.”

You spot her clothes—torn, filthy—crumpled in the corner like discarded refuse. You grab them and cover her.

You wrap her arms over your shoulders and lift.

Her weight nearly drops you. Your back’s screaming. Your ribs feel like they’re grinding into each other. But you rise anyway.

You carry her out the door.

The wind outside hits your face like a blessing. Cold and dry and sharp enough to keep you awake.

You don’t get ten paces before a shot rings out.

CRACK.

You don’t flinch.

A body falls behind you—slumped out from the shadows of a shack you hadn’t cleared. A glint of steel in his hand. A second away from sinking it into your back.

He won’t move again.