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Lea's apartment door was unlocked. That was the first problem.
I pushed it open with my shoulder, keeping my gun low. The lights were on. Her med kit sat open on the kitchen counter, gauze scattered like she'd left in a hurry. Coffee still warm in the pot.
"Shit."
She wasn't supposed to be working tonight. I'd checked her schedule twice before I dragged Ava out of that alley. Lea Santos, former field medic, current ER nurse at Mercy General, should've been home. Should've been safe.
Instead I found a Post-it on the fridge: *Downstairs. 4C. Don't wait up.*
I took the stairs two at a time.
Fourth floor, apartment C. Door cracked open. I heard her voice before I saw her.
"Stay still. I mean it. You move, this bleeds worse."
I stepped inside.
Lea was kneeling on the floor next to an old man slumped against the couch. His shirt was soaked red. She had both hands pressed over his abdomen, her forearms slick. The guy looked maybe seventy, grey hair, trembling. Not a player. Just someone in the wrong place.
"Lea."
She didn't look up. "Close the door."
I did. Locked it. "You need to leave. Now."
"I'm a little busy, Mark."
"I'm serious. Pack a bag. Get out of the building."
She finally glanced at me. Her eyes were sharp, annoyed. "Mr. Dimitri got stabbed in the stairwell an hour ago. I'm not leaving him to bleed out while you play spook games."
"They're not games. Sokolov's people are cleaning house. Anyone connected to me is on the list."
"Then you shouldn't have come here."
She turned back to the old man, adjusting her pressure. He groaned. She murmured something in Portuguese, low and steady. Her hands didn't shake.
I scanned the apartment. One window. Fire escape outside. No movement yet, but that didn't mean much. If they'd tracked me to Ava, they'd track me here. I had maybe ten minutes before this place turned into a killbox.
"Lea. Listen to me."
"I am listening. You want me to run. I'm telling you I won't leave him."
"He's not your problem."
Her jaw tightened. "He's my neighbor. He brought me soup last month when I had the flu. I'm not leaving."
I checked the window again. Still clear. My phone buzzed. Text from Ava: *Tracker signal moved. Heading your way.*
Fuck.
"How long until he's stable?"
"Twenty minutes if the ambulance gets here. Longer if it doesn't."
"You don't have twenty minutes."
"Then help me or get out."
I stared at her. She didn't blink. Same look she used to give me in Kabul when I told her to leave a wounded contractor behind. Same iron in her voice.
I holstered my gun and crossed the room. Knelt next to her. "What do you need?"
"Gauze. More pressure. And call 911 if you haven't already."
I pulled out my phone. Dialed. Gave the address. Hung up before they could ask questions.
"Done. Now we move him."
"He'll bleed out if we—"
"He'll bleed out if we stay."
I grabbed the old man under his shoulders. Lea swore but kept her hands on the wound. We lifted him together, slow and awkward. He whimpered. I hated it. We got him onto the couch, propped up, Lea still pressing down.
"Stay with him," I said. "I'll check the hall."
I moved to the door. Cracked it open. The hallway was empty. Too empty. No sound. No neighbors. I could smell it before I saw it—burnt cordite, faint but fresh.
Someone had already been here.
I slipped back inside. "They're in the building."
Lea's face went pale. "How many?"
"Don't know. At least two."
She looked at the old man. He was conscious, barely. His lips were moving. She leaned closer. He whispered something. She shook her head.
"He's asking if we're going to die," she said.
"Not if you listen to me."
Footsteps. Down the hall. Slow. Methodical. I drew my gun.
"Bathroom," I said. "Now."
"I'm not—"
"Take him. Lock the door. Don't open it until I knock three times."
She hesitated. Then nodded. We hauled the old man up again. He gasped. Lea half-carried him toward the bathroom. I stayed by the door.
The footsteps stopped. Right outside.
I counted to three. Then I yanked the door open and fired twice.
The first guy went down. The second lunged. I caught his wrist before he could bring his knife around. We slammed into the wall. He was bigger than me, heavier. His breath stank like cigarettes and adrenaline. I drove my knee into his ribs. He grunted. Didn't let go.
I heard Lea scream my name.
I twisted. Got my gun up. Fired into his gut. Point blank. He dropped.
I turned. A third guy was in the apartment. Coming through the window. Fire escape. I'd missed him.
He had a gun trained on the bathroom door.
I didn't think. Just moved. Tackled him before he could shoot. We went down hard. My shoulder hit the floor. Pain exploded up my side. He rolled. Got on top. Pressed the barrel against my chest.
I grabbed his wrist. Shoved it aside. The gun went off. Loud. My ears rang. The bullet tore through my jacket. Grazed my ribs. I felt the heat before the blood.
I headbutted him. His nose crunched. He reeled back. I threw him off. Grabbed my gun. Put two rounds in his chest.
Silence.
I lay there for a second. Breathing. My side was on fire. I pressed my hand against it. Came away red.
The bathroom door opened. Lea stepped out. Saw me. Saw the blood.
"Mark."
She was next to me in a heartbeat. Her hands were already moving. She ripped my jacket open. Pulled my shirt up.
"It's not deep," I said.
"Shut up."
She pressed gauze against the wound. I hissed. She didn't ease up. Her face was inches from mine. I could feel her breath. Warm. Fast. Her fingers were cold.
Then she froze.
Her eyes locked on something. My ribs. Just below the wound.
The number.
07.
It was glowing. Faint. Like ember-light under skin. I'd forgotten about it. Forgotten she could see it.
She pulled her hand back. Stared.
"What the hell is that?"
I didn't answer.
"Mark. What is that?"
"It's complicated."
"Try me."
I sat up. She didn't stop me. Her hand hovered near the number, like she wanted to touch it but didn't dare.
"It's a counter," I said.
"A counter for what?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. How do you explain this? How do you tell someone you've died twice already and you've got seven lives left?
Before I could answer, one of the bodies moved.
The guy by the window. The one I'd shot in the chest. He was still breathing. Barely. Blood bubbled from his lips. He turned his head. Looked at me.
And grinned.
"Sokolov's bringing the recovery protocol tonight," he rasped. "You're already on the table, Weston."
Then he stopped breathing.
Lea stared at the body. At me. At the glowing number on my ribs.
"Mark," she said slowly. "What the fuck is going on?"
I heard sirens outside. Getting closer.
I pulled my shirt down. Stood. My side screamed. I ignored it.
"I'll explain later. Right now we need to move."
"You're not going anywhere until you tell me what that number means."
I looked at her. She wasn't going to let this go. I could see it in her eyes. The same stubborn loyalty that made her stay for a dying neighbor. The same thing that kept her from leaving wounded men behind.
I didn't have time for this.
But I didn't have time to lose her, either.
"It means I've got seven left," I said. "And if Sokolov gets his hands on me tonight, I'm going to burn through all of them."