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“He’s currently sitting in Interview Room 3 at the downtown precinct, ma’am,” Sergeant Christopher’s voice snapped through the phone line, sharp and laced with controlled fury. “He walked in voluntarily twenty minutes ago, acting like the concerned, shattered husband. Brought a travel mug of coffee and everything. Kept telling the desk sergeant that I needed to be investigated for harassment because I was grilling him about a routine domestic fall.” / Chapter 7 / 8

Chapter 7 - THE BLINDING STRIKE

My eyes darted downward for a fraction of a second, tracking the exact angle of Viktor’s stance. His weight was heavily shifted onto his right foot—a classic defensive posture designed to absorb recoil, but terrible for lateral agility.

He thought he had me cornered. He thought a mother’s life was a leash he could pull to make a decorated military intelligence officer dance to his tune.

He forgot who he was dealing with.

“You’re right, Viktor,” I said softly, my voice dropping an octave as I slowly lowered the barrel of my gun by two inches, projecting compliance. “It’s a fair trade. You win.”

Viktor’s eyes lit up with arrogant triumph. A fraction of his attention drifted downward, anticipating the metallic clatter of my sidearm hitting the linoleum floor.

That microsecond of distraction was all I needed.

Instead of dropping the gun, I pivoted sharply on my left heel, sweeping my right leg in a devastating, high-velocity low kick straight into Viktor’s planted right knee.

CRACK.

The sickening sound of cartilage tearing echoed through Trauma Bay 4, instantly swallowed by Viktor’s blood-curdling shriek of agony. His knee buckled sideways at an unnatural angle, destroying his center of gravity.

Before he could even begin to process the pain, I lunged forward, slamming the butt of my Sig Sauer directly into the bridge of his nose with bone-crushing force.

Viktor collapsed backward like a felled oak tree, crashing straight into the portable X-ray machine with a deafening clatter of metal, glass, and sparks. The silenced pistol flew from his limp hand, skittering across the floor and coming to a halt near my combat boot.

I stood over him, pressing the heavy steel barrel of my gun squarely against the center of his forehead as he writhed on the floor, clutching his shattered knee and bleeding profusely from his nose.

“Try to breathe, Viktor, and I’ll turn your skull into modern art,” I whispered, my voice dripping with cold, righteous fury.

The heavy glass doors behind us shattered completely as Sergeant Christopher and a tactical backup squad swarmed into the hallway, assault rifles raised, shouting orders.

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“Secure the target! Clear the room!” Christopher roared, before stopping dead in his tracks as he surveyed the wreckage. He looked down at Viktor groaning on the floor, then up at me standing calm, collected, and completely in control.

“Well, Colonel,” Christopher whistled softly, holstering his weapon. “Remind me never to play poker with you.”

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