Chapter 8 - The Ghost of the Past
"You think I left your little bastard unguarded?" Thomas sneered, his finger hovering dangerously over the red button on the remote. "I sent my best operative to Brooklyn twenty minutes ago. The moment my heart stops—or the moment I press this button—that subway station turns into a tomb."
Eleanor felt the world tilt on its axis. Her chest heaved, rage blinding her senses. She didn't look at Julian; she didn't look at the armed guards. She charged.
Eleanor tackled Thomas across the rain-slicked helipad before the guards could react. They hit the wet deck hard, rolling toward the edge of the eighty-story drop. Thomas snarled, swinging a heavy elbow into Eleanor’s ribs, but she barely felt it. Driven by pure maternal fury, she grabbed his wrist, driving her knee into his sternum until the detonator flew from his grip, skidding across the slippery metal floor.
Julian engaged the two mercenaries in a brutal, close-quarters fistfight, using his massive frame to throw one guard over the helipad railing into the abyssal darkness below.
On the edge of the roof, Thomas pulled a concealed hunting knife from his boot, slashing at Eleanor’s throat. She leaped backward, the blade cutting a sharp slice through her jacket.
"You should have stayed in that motel, Eleanor!" Thomas screamed, lunging forward with the knife.
Suddenly, a shot rang out across the rooftop.
Thomas froze. He looked down at his chest, where a small red circle expanded rapidly against his white dress shirt. He collapsed onto his knees, dropping the knife, before slowly falling forward onto the wet helipad.
Eleanor spun around, expecting to see Julian holding the smoking gun. But Julian was still struggling with the remaining guard on the far side of the roof.
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Standing at the doorway of the helipad, holding a heavy silencer-equipped pistol, was a woman dressed in black tactical gear. Her face was pale, scarred by fresh red lacerations across her cheeks.
It was Maria.
