The shot rang out before I even had time to breathe.
A sharp, violent crack split through the London air. Too clean, too precise to be anything but a sniper's round. My body moved before my mind caught up.
One second I was watching Alexandre through the scope. The next, my rifle was already braced against my shoulder. My finger pulling the trigger with ruthless instinct.
My bullet struck the shadow perched two buildings over. A figure jerked forward, their weapon clattering against the ledge before their body disappeared from sight. I didn't wait to confirm the kill. I knew my aim.
Across the street, Alexandre dove behind the reinforced pillar of his balcony, rolling into cover with the ease of someone who'd survived more ambushes than a man his age should have.
My heart hammered, cold and furious.
I hadn't thought. I hadn't even hesitated to protect him.
Why?
My breath scraped harshly into my throat as I lowered the rifle, my fingers trembling despite years of training that should've kept them steady. I'm fucked. Because this was wrong.
Every instinct had told me protecting the target was the last thing I should've done. Yet the second that bullet was fired, something old and buried inside me snapped awake. Something that didn't care about missions or orders of logic.
Something that moved like recognition. Like an instinct my mind didn't remember.
My breath hitched.
Across the street, Alexandre shifted. His movements slow, lethal. The man who had been caught off guard seconds ago was gone, replaced by the dangerous man I've been warned about.
He pressed his shoulder against the stone column, gun now drawn, angled low at first. Then higher...then—
Straight toward my window.
My pulse spiked.
He found me.
A sliver of movement must've given me away. The way his gaze locked onto my building with unnerving precision. The barrel of his gun rising into a smooth, practiced line.
"Shit—"
I dropped instantly, flattening myself against the cold floorboards just as bullets tore past the edge of my window frame, splintering wood where my head had been a heartbeat earlier.
Dust rained down. My pulse thundered in my ears.
He had fired without hesitation.
My hands curled tighter around the gun strapped to my thigh. I pulled it free, the metal cold against my palm as I pressed myself flat against the wall beside the window, out of his line of sight. A part of me prayed that he hadn't seen me. But luck rarely favored people like me.
If my location was blown, then I needed to move. Fast.
I swept my small studio with my eyes, grabbing whatever gear I could without making noise. The shots were silent now, which was never a good sign in my world. Silence meant repositioning. Silence meant someone was stalking instead of firing. With suppressors on both our weapons, silence meant he, or his men, would breach this apartment in seconds.
And of course, he must've assumed I've shot first.
The thought twisted in my gut, absurd and sharp.
Minutes ago, I've kept him alive.
Now, he was hunting me down.
I slung the heaviest bag over my shoulder and slipped out of the apartment door, my pulse hammering. The hallway was empty, but I didn't trust it. I moved quickly, quietly cutting toward the stairwell only to veer off at the last second toward the fire escape instead.
Going down the street was suicide.
If he had men nearby, they'd be sweeping the streets first. The rooftops were my only chance.
I shoved the window open and climbed onto the metal grating, my boots landing without a sound. The cold night air hit me hard, but I welcomed it. It cleared my head, sharpened my senses, reminded me that I wasn't dead yet.
I hoisted myself up toward the rooftop ladder, my heart pounding as the city lights flickered below and around me.
Seconds ago, I had saved his life. And now, he was aiming to take mine. The bitter irony burned down my throat, tasting almost like betrayal. Almost like familiarity.
The rooftop met me in a rush of cold air and gritty concrete. But I didn't slow. I couldn't. The second my boots touched solid ground, I sprinted across the flat expanse, keeping low and pulling my mask on. The wind whipping my hair back from my face.
A shout cut through the night. A language I didn't understand, but familiar with. Russian. One of his men spotting movement.
A flash blinked from a rooftop two buildings over. The suppressed whistle of a bullet, slicing past my ear.
I dropped into a roll, came up on one knee, and fired twice. Quick. Precise.
But my shots sparked against the metal vent behind him, forcing the bastard to dive for cover. I didn't even bother to see if he'd pop back up. Hesitation was how people died.
I vaulted over a rusted railing and landed on the next building's lower roof. My legs absorbing the shock. Pain bursting up my shins, but adrenaline smothered it before it could take root.
More footsteps thundered behind me. Three, maybe four men. Turned out Alexandre never traveled light. Of course he didn't.
"North side!" one of them barked. "She's moving north!"
A bullet hit the edge of the parapet in front of me, spraying stone hards across my cheek. I swiped it away, thankful that I've had the forethought of covering the lower half of my face. Then I leaned out, just far enough, to send another shot back.
One of them staggered, grabbing his leg as he crashed behind an AC unit.
Thank god. One less. More to go.
They kept coming. Fuck.
My lungs burned, cold air scraping the inside of my throat as I leapt across a narrow alley gap. My boot slipped on the opposite ledge. Just an inch, long enough to feel gravity snag my balance, but I slammed a hand onto the concrete and hauled myself up.
Another volley of suppressed fire answered me.
I spun, firing on instinct, the recoil steady against my palm. A shadow ducked behind a skylight, but I've bought myself half a second, maybe a whole one. Enough to keep moving.
I have to keep moving.
I slid down a slanted rooftop, my boots skidding against the old tiles, and when the drop came, I jumped. Too far, too fast. I landed hard on my shoulder, pain cracking through my bones.
I rolled, teeth gritted, forcing myself upright.
Behind me, they were spreading out now. Methodical, disciplined. They were not thugs. Certainly not amateurs. These were men who had been trained, and answered to only one man.
Alexandre Barinov.
I should've called for backup. I could've. All I had to do was to press the button inside my jacket, and they'd come within minutes. But for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to.
Pride, perhaps.
I ran and vaulted to the next rooftop, breath tearing out of me in ragged bursts. Another shot cracked behind me. Too close. I ducked, fired twice without thinking, without aiming for kills. Just enough to keep them back.
The bullet whizzed past my ear as I threw myself over the ledge, landing hard on a metal balcony that rattled under my weight.
Fuck.
Blackfriars stretched blow me. Streetlights streaking across wet pavements, taxis crawling. The distant hum of the Thames mixing with the late-night chatter. My eyes scanned for cover. Anything. Anywhere.
I didn't hesitate. Sprinting towards the fire escape of an old stone building, my boots slamming metal, then dropped the last few steps and hit the ground running. Shots echoed somewhere behind me, his men were spreading out, but the street swallowed the sound.
I shot the lock twice, kicked the door open and slipped inside.
A pedestrian underpass. The kind that smelled faintly of damp concrete and old river water. Fluorescent lights flicked overhead. Footsteps from outside echoed down the tunnel, warped by the acoustics. Perfect.
I kept my head low, mask tight, moving quickly down the tiled corridor until I spotted the door to the public restroom. I slipped inside and into the nearest stall, locking it with shaking fingers. Then I climbed onto the edges of the toilet bowl, balancing carefully, making myself small. Silent.
One breath. Then another.
My pulse hammered. Sweat sliding between my shoulder blades despite the icy air. My ears still rang with gunfire, every nerve pumped with adrenaline.
I unzipped my bag and reloaded my gun.
That's when the restroom door creaked open.
I went still.
Then the soft click of it closing again. Slow, deliberate.
Water began to run at the sink.
"Bold of you," he said, the tap switching off. "To try killing me...and run. I have to admit, not many have tried it the way you did."
My breath lodged in my throat.
"Who are you?"
I didn't answer. My jaw clenched. Fuck.
Metal hinges groaned. He didn't wait, of course he didn't. He forced the rusted door open, and there I was, gun raised, pointed straight at his chest.
But he didn't attack. He didn't even move.
He just stared, like he had seen a ghost.
Even with the mask covering half my face, my hair dyed, even with the shadows around us, he looked at me as if the world had tilted.
"Lara?" he whispered.