The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 507

The second she kicked the door open and dropped to the deck, a hail of bullets shredded the underside of the chopper, sending a shower of sparks into the air.

Cassandra swore, ducking behind the fuselage. She pulled a handgun from her flight jacket, racking the slide in one fluid, deadly motion.

"Wyatt! Two on the left!" she shouted, leaning out and dropping a guard charging from the port side with a clean double-tap.

Wyatt had already dismounted from the opposite side, using the cargo crates for cover as he pushed toward the center of the deck.

"I got 'em!"

He kept his weapon raised, the barrel trained on the starboard corridor.

A guard armed with an SMG rounded the corner. Before the man could even raise his weapon, Wyatt's bullet slammed into his shoulder. The guard grunted, his gun clattering across the steel plates.

"Garrison!" Wyatt yelled over his shoulder. "Go find Sloane! We'll hold the line!"

But in the next split second—*Bang!*—a deafening gunshot echoed right behind Wyatt. A sniper sneaking up the gangway took a bullet straight through the forehead, a bloom of red exploding in the dark before his body collapsed with a heavy thud right at Wyatt's feet.

Wyatt stared down at the twitching corpse, utterly stunned for two full seconds before whipping his head around.

Garrison stood fifteen feet away. Smoke curled lazily from the barrel of his handgun. His face was as completely devoid of emotion as if he had just finished a routine surgery.

Cassandra peeked out from behind the chopper, her eyes wide as saucers. "Boss, since when do you know how to shoot?"

"Just learned."

Garrison lowered the gun, his voice eerily flat. He issued one final order, "I'm going to get Sloane." Without waiting for a response, he turned and sprinted toward the hatch leading below deck.

Three more guards flooded the deck. Wyatt and Cassandra fanned out, laying down a brutal crossfire that pinned the men tightly against the ship's railing.

Garrison didn't look back.

He deliberately muted his footsteps, rolling his weight to keep his boots completely silent against the steel grating. He finally stopped outside the door.

The thin beam of yellow light escaping from the crack painted a harsh line across his face.

He listened for a fraction of a second. Breathing. Two people.

Garrison took half a step back, raised his leg, and kicked the deadbolt with terrifying force.

The lock shattered instantly. The heavy iron door exploded inward, slamming against the bulkhead with a deafening crash. Sickly yellow light flooded into the pitch-black hallway, illuminating Garrison's towering frame. Gun in hand, drenched in freezing ocean mist, he looked like a grim reaper stepping straight out of the abyss.

Through the dim light, his eyes adjusted. He saw exactly what was happening in the room.

His pupils shrank to pinpricks.