Chapter One Hundred and Fifty
Ahmet didn't slow.
He shouldn't have been here at all. His body knew it. Every movement pulled at the damage still knitting itself together beneath his skin and muscle. It was a dull, grinding ache that flared whenever he twisted too fast or drew a breath too deep. It wasn't fresh pain. It was worse than that, the kind that reminded you how close you had already come to not waking up.
It only made him angrier.
The silencer whispered again.
A man dropped before the thought of danger reached his eyes. Another turned halfway, confusion flickering across his face, and then he folded. Ahmet moved with a precision born of long habit, not haste. He didn't spray bullets. He placed them. Every shot ended something that deserved to end.
A sharp pull tore through his chest as he shifted his weight. His jaw tightened, breath hitching for the barest second.
Good.
Let it hurt.
