50. Chapter Fifty Nathan

Chapter Fifty: Nathan

T he room erupted.

Gunshots cracked through the air, loud enough to split eardrums. Everything went nuts in a blink.

"Knuckles!" I yelled over the noise, trying to keep my head down.

"Got it, boss!" Knuckles shouted back, and his gun spat fire at the guards swarming like angry bees.

I glanced up just in time to see my father stumbling up the stairs, leaving red splatters behind him. His suit was getting darker with blood by the second; Knuckles had hit him, but he could still move.

Shit .

"Knuckles, aim for Kenny!"

"Way ahead of ya!" But Ba was already moving fast, using what little life he had left to put distance between us.

"Damn it," I muttered and ducked as a bullet whizzed past my head.

Shit was going straight to hell, but I had to move.

I sprinted after my father, up the stairs of the kill room. He was a ghost, slipping through the chaos like he was made of smoke. But I was close, real close. His hand hit the stairwell door, and he shoved it open, stumbling out into the dimly lit corridor beyond.

"Ba!" My voice was raw, my feet pounding up the steps. But he had the lead and desperation on his side. With a last burst of strength, he slammed the door shut.

I heard the heavy thud of a deadbolt sliding home just as I crashed into the cold metal.

"Fuck!" I snarled. The keypad was right there, blinking green and red like a traffic light that couldn't make up its mind—but I knew the code. I could get out. I punched in the first number, but before I could hit the next, a heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder.

"Where do you think you're going?" hissed a guard, blade glinting in his hand.

I threw an elbow, hard, felt it connect with something soft—a grunt, then a thud. But there were more of them, flooding the narrow stairway, all knives and bad intentions. They snarled like alley cats, too cramped to use their guns without risking shooting each other.

"Clip's out!" Knuckles' voice cut through the noise, rough as gravel.

I didn't have time to curse or even glance back at him. The guards were closing in, and Knuckles was no good to me without bullets.

My window was closing fast; I needed to move, now.

I pushed off the keypad and threw myself back into the fray. The guy in front of me didn't know what hit him as I slid the scalpel across his throat, warm blood splattering over my hand, my face, the stairwell walls. He gurgled, eyes wide with shock, and I didn't hesitate. Using his body like a shield, I shoved him down the steps, barreling through the gap he created.

"Get him!" one yelled, but their words were just noise to me.

The remaining guards swarmed, blades flashing, but I was already moving, pushing, using the dead weight to bulldoze my way through. A fist grazed my cheek, and I felt the sting, but I kept on, shoving bodies aside with every ounce of strength I had left.

"Down! Down!" Knuckles' voice barely reached me, but it was enough to keep my legs pumping, driving me forward against the onslaught.

Blood slicked the steps beneath me, making footing treacherous, but I didn't let it slow me. I twisted, turned, kept the momentum going until I burst through the last line of defense.

Time to get to work.

I hit the cold floor and rolled, my body on autopilot as I lunged for the instrument table. No time to waste. My fingers danced over the metal tools—rusty pliers, a thin knife, scalpels laid out like some twisted surgeon's fantasy—and then the branding iron, still plugged in, its glow promising pain.

"Come on," I muttered under my breath, my back screaming from the impact.

With a grunt, I grabbed the dead guy by his collar, hefting the lifeless bulk up just enough to block the next attacker. The guard stumbled into the corpse, his knife swinging wild, throwing him off his game. It was sloppy, but it bought me seconds, precious seconds.

The scalpel hit the floor with a clatter that was almost lost in the chaos. My hand snapped up, gripping the rusty pliers and the knife like they were extensions of my own battered will to survive.

"Left!" Knuckles' strained shout cut through the din just as I spun, driving the pliers into the thigh of the man before me. He howled, his leg buckling, giving me the chance to shift focus as another attacker barreled towards me.

"Watch it, Nate!" Knuckles yelled again. He was still slumped on the chair, but sharp-eyed, watching my back even through his pain.

I was still on the ground, this guard thinking he had me beat. Big mistake. With a quick jab, my knife found a home in his upper thigh. He screamed, anger flooding his face, but pain threw him off. Without a second thought, I leapt to my feet and drove the knife into throat.

Blood sprayed as I pulled it back out again.

I tasted copper.

"Behind you!" Knuckles' warning came just in time.

I turned to see another goon, all muscle and rage, swinging a chain at me. I stepped aside, snatched the chain mid-air, and yanked like hell, pulling him in close. My knife plunged into his stomach, a cruel twist sealing the deal.

He dropped like a sack of bricks, done.

Blood from the last guy was still warm on my blade when I caught the others eyeing me. They were sizing me up, trying to figure if they could take me down while I was beat up and breathing hard. I could see it in their eyes—they were nervous, but so was I.

My lungs were burning, every breath a battle. I knew I couldn't keep this up much longer, so I switched it up. Pushing off the blood-slick floor, I bolted for the table crammed with grim tools, my eyes locking on the red glow of the branding iron.

"Come on," I hissed under my breath, gauging the distance.

I snatched the handle, the heat biting into my palm through the ragged cloth wrapped around it. Without missing a beat, I swung around, arm cocked back. One of the guards was already lunging at me, knife aimed for my gut.

"Hey!" I yelled, just to steal his focus.

It worked. His eyes flicked to mine, and that's when I launched the iron straight at him. It spiraled through the air, end over end, and slammed into his face. The smell hit us both before the scream tore from his lips—a mix of burned hair and flesh. He stumbled back, hands clawing at the glowing metal.

No time to look. One of the last guys was raising his gun.

I hit the ground, rolling with a grunt, and my hand latched onto the cold chain. It was thick, heavy, just what I needed. With an arm that screamed in protest, I wrapped it tight around my forearm. Made myself a quick shield. The metal links dug into my skin, but it was nothing compared to what these goons had in mind for me. The guy with the gun tried to shoot—realized his clip was empty—tossed it aside and ran.

I slammed the arm wrapped in steel into his jaw.

He went down.

Across from me, only one guard was left standing. He eyed me, then the bodies of his buddies. We were both panting, both sizing up the mess between us. I straightened up slow, wiping blood from my mouth with the back of my hand, feeling the sting as it mixed with cuts.

"You’re not getting paid enough for this," I told him in Mandarin. "Leave it."

I saw it in his eyes—doubt, the flicker of fear. He knew he was outmatched, even if he wouldn't admit it.

But the guard squared his shoulders, clutched his knife tighter.

He didn't budge.

Big mistake.

He came at me with a lunge, his knife aiming straight for my chest like he wanted to pin me to the grimy floor. But I wasn't having any of that.

I shifted just a hair to the left, letting his blade slide by…then I hurled the chained arm at his head. I hit him right in the skull with a crack—then my knife found its home in his side, quick and sure. He grunted—a sound that got swallowed up by the clanging and cursing that filled the room.

"Ah!" The sound ripped from his throat as he staggered back, his hand pressing against the wet wound. His face twisted in pain, but his eyes…they were losing that fight.

I kicked out, sending him crashing into the cold concrete wall. He slid down without another word, done.

I stood there for a second, panting hard, feeling the sting of cuts and the heat of my own blood trickling down in places. The chain on my arm felt like it weighed a ton now, but it had done its job. Some of the men still twitched, crawled, cried.

"Kid," Knuckles rasped. He was a mess, but his eyes were clear. "Forget them. Kenny's your mark."

My chest burned from the effort, my heart hammering against my ribs, but I nodded. Knuckles was right. I had to move, had to finish this.

So, I sucked in that single, heavy breath and turned towards the stairs—toward the trail of blood left by my father.