Chapter 1104
The assassin walked toward her unhurriedly, his boots crunching over broken glass. He knew he had her.
“Messy,” he rasped between coughs. “Master hates messy.”
He rounded the cart. Skye looked up at the barrel of the gun. It looked enormous.
“Goodbye, Ms. Sterling.”
Crash.
The metal rolling door of the loading dock buckled inward with a deafening screech of tearing steel. A black SUV drove through it in reverse, the reinforced bumper obliterating the lock mechanism and sending the door flying off its tracks. The vehicle spun one hundred and eighty degrees, tires smoking on the concrete, and screeched to a halt between Skye and the assassin.
The driver’s door flew open before the car had fully stopped.
Alistair.
He looked like a demon who had clawed his way out of hell. His eyes were wild, sweeping through the smoke until they found her.
The rage in his face dissolved, replaced by sheer, unadulterated terror.
“Skye!”
He was at her side in an instant, dropping to his knees. He fired two shots over the hood of the car without looking, dropping the assassin with clinical precision, then holstered his weapon and pressed his hand over hers directly against the wound.
“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’ve got you. Look at me.”
“You came back,” Skye whispered, her teeth chattering from shock.
“I saw the signal jam,” he said, ripping the hem of his shirt to make a compress. “The ambulance — I jumped out. I ran back to the lead car.”
He pressed down hard. Skye cried out.
“Sorry, sorry,” he murmured, his face pale. He tapped his earpiece. “Status!”
“Perimeter breached,” a voice crackled back. “Thorne tactical team is inside. We’re mopping up.”
“Kill them all,” Alistair snarled into the mic. “Every single one. Leave nothing breathing.”
He gathered her into his arms. The movement sent a fresh wave of agony through her shoulder, and the world tilted dangerously.
“Stay with me, Skye. Don’t you dare close your eyes.”
He carried her through the shattered loading dock door and out into the night. Cool air hit her face. Rain had begun to fall again.
Ethan Vance pulled up in a second armored SUV, tires shrieking on the wet asphalt. He jumped out and threw the back door open.
“She’s hit!” Alistair shouted. “Get the medical kit!”
He laid her carefully across the back seat. Ethan was already moving, tearing open a sterile package.
“Go,” Alistair told Ethan. “Get her to the safe house clinic. Not the hospital — it’s compromised.”
“You’re coming,” Skye managed, seizing his sleeve with her good hand. Her grip was weak and trembling.
Alistair looked down at her. He brushed the wet hair from her forehead, his fingers lingering on her cheek, his eyes dark pools of controlled violence.
“I have to finish this,” he said quietly. “They’re still inside. If I leave now, they regroup. They come after us again.”
“Alistair, no…”
“I love you,” he said. It sounded like a vow.
He pulled away and slammed the car door shut.