Chapter 16: THE GYM — Part 2
The bodyguard filled the doorway with a gun already in his hand.
I was on my back, Glock raised at Volkov who was mid-lunge toward me, and now there was a third variable entering the equation. The thick-necked younger guard, face twisted with alarm, weapon tracking toward the chaos.
Time compressed into individual heartbeats.
Volkov first. Volkov's the contract.
I fired twice into the Russian's chest from three feet away. The rounds hit center mass, punching through sternum and heart. His forward momentum carried him another half-step before his body realized it was dead.
He collapsed on top of me.
The bodyguard fired. The round sparked off the floor six inches from my head, ricocheting into the lockers with a whine. Volkov's corpse was heavy—dead weight pressing me into the wet tiles, limiting my movement, blocking my aim.
I couldn't get a clean shot.
[CONTRACT COMPLETE. REWARD: 100 BLOOD COINS.]
The System's confirmation cut through the gunfire. Volkov was dead. The Marker was satisfied. But that didn't help me survive the next thirty seconds.
The bodyguard fired again. This time the round punched through Volkov's body and stopped in the Kevlar vest I wasn't wearing. Heat bloomed across my ribs—not penetration, just the transferred impact of a bullet that had lost most of its velocity pushing through meat and bone.
Move. Now.
I shoved Volkov's corpse off me and rolled right. The bodyguard's next shot went through the space I'd just occupied. He was moving into the locker room now, using the rows of metal lockers for cover, trying to get an angle on me.
I scrambled behind a bench. Grabbed the frame. Flipped it toward him.
The bench caught his knees. He stumbled, gun arm swinging wide, and I put a round through his thigh before he could recover. He went down screaming, weapon clattering away across the tiles.
The locker room had erupted into chaos. Men were running, shouting, scrambling for exits. Someone was yelling about calling 911. The steam from the showers mixed with gunsmoke into a choking haze.
Fire exit. Back alley. Go.
I pushed up from behind the bench, keeping my gun trained on the wounded bodyguard. He was clutching his thigh, blood pumping between his fingers, all fight gone from his eyes. Just pain and shock now.
I could finish him. One round. No witness.
Leave him. He didn't see your face clearly through the steam. The cameras are the real problem—and Ghost Mode handled those during entry.
The fire exit was fifteen feet away. I covered the distance in four seconds, slammed through the door, and burst into the alley behind Iron House Fitness.
Sunlight stabbed my eyes. The noise of the gym faded as the heavy door swung shut behind me. My shoes slapped against concrete as I sprinted for the alley's east exit—away from Brighton Beach Avenue, away from the direction Volkov's driver would expect an attacker to flee.
Strip the jacket. Dump it. Change your silhouette.
The blood-soaked jacket came off as I ran. I stuffed it behind a dumpster without slowing. Underneath was a plain gray t-shirt, unremarkable, anonymous. I shoved the Glock into my waistband and covered it with the shirt's hem.
At the alley's exit, I forced myself to slow. Walk. Breathe. Become just another pedestrian on the Brooklyn sidewalk.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Multiple vehicles, converging on Iron House Fitness from different directions.
Too fast. Someone called the cops immediately. Maybe the gym had a panic button.
I crossed the street. Kept my head down. Joined a small crowd of people who'd stopped to watch the commotion. Rubberneckers wondering what was happening. Perfect camouflage.
The black Mercedes screeched around the corner and slammed to a stop in front of the gym. The driver jumped out, hand going to his waistband, shouting into a phone in rapid Russian.
He doesn't know which way I went. He's not looking for a guy in a gray t-shirt. Move.
I peeled away from the crowd and walked toward the subway station. Casual pace. No running. Just a local getting out of the area before the cops locked everything down.
The platform was empty when I reached it. I stood near the exit, watching the stairs, waiting for the train or trouble—whichever came first.
Three minutes later, the subway arrived. I stepped inside, found a seat near the door, and let myself breathe for the first time since the locker room.
My hands were shaking.
[BLOOD COINS: 225. TIER 1 STATUS: 225/500 TO TIER 2.]
I looked down. Volkov's blood covered my forearms. Dark stains on my gray t-shirt that I hadn't noticed in my rush to escape. My knuckles were scraped raw from the fight, seeping red.
The adrenaline was fading. Pain was seeping in to fill the void. My back ached from the locker impact. My ribs throbbed where the spent round had hit. My throat was bruised from Volkov's grip.
But I was alive. And he wasn't.
Two contracts. Two kills. Getting faster. Getting cleaner.
The System hummed satisfaction in the back of my skull. A wordless approval that felt almost parental. Good boy. Good dog. You're learning.
I closed my eyes and leaned back against the seat.
The shaking in my hands wouldn't stop.
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