Chapter 6 - The Ghost Awakes
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The interior of the SUV was deafening, the heavy thud of bullets hammering the reinforced steel doors like a violent drumbeat.
Larkin stared at the suppressed weapon in my hand, his cold, calculating mask finally slipping into genuine, unfiltered shock.
“Who the hell are you?” Larkin yelled over the gunfire.
“We have about forty seconds before they bring out the heavy breaching rounds and crack this glass,” I said, my voice completely devoid of panic, slipping effortlessly into the tactical mindset I had buried for three years. “Silas, pop the trunk release. They’re focusing fire on the passenger doors.”
Silas glanced in the rearview mirror, too professional to argue, and hit the switch.
“When the trunk opens, I’ll lay suppressing fire. You and Silas move to the alley on the left,” I ordered Larkin, racking the slide of my pistol with a sharp, metallic click.
“I do not take orders from my accountant,” Larkin growled, raising his own weapon.
“Then consider it a strong recommendation, sir,” I replied dryly.
I kicked the backseat down, scrambling into the rear cargo area. The moment the trunk popped open a fraction of an inch, I shoved it wide and opened fire.
I didn't spray wildly. I fired three controlled bursts, taking down the two gunmen advancing on the rear sedans. They dropped instantly, entirely unprepared for return fire from the trunk.
“Move!” I shouted.
Larkin and Silas bailed out of the driver-side doors, using the massive body of the SUV as a shield. I rolled out of the trunk, hitting the wet asphalt barefoot, and sprinted toward the narrow brick alleyway, providing cover fire as the remaining attackers scrambled to regroup.
We breached the alley, plunging into the dark, rain-soaked shadows. Silas kicked open a rusted metal door leading into the basement of an abandoned textile factory, and we barricaded ourselves inside.
The silence of the dusty basement was heavy, broken only by our ragged breathing.
Larkin turned on a tactical flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness to illuminate my face. I stood barefoot in my four-thousand-dollar silk dress, holding a smoking pistol with the calm precision of a seasoned killer.
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Larkin stepped forward, his eyes burning with a mixture of fury, betrayal, and dark, intoxicating fascination.
“You dropped two trained mercenaries with three shots,” Larkin whispered, closing the distance until his chest nearly brushed against mine. “You didn't flinch. You didn't hesitate. I am going to ask you one more time, Penelope. And if you lie to me, I will shoot you myself. Who are you?”
