Chapter 6 - Blood on the Hardwood
The heavy oak door exploded inward in a shower of splinters and dust. Before the first fixer could fully step across the threshold, the brass lamp swung with bone-crushing force, catching him squarely across the chest and sending him crashing backward into the corridor wall. The second operative drew a suppressed sidearm with lightning speed, aiming straight for the center of the room. Moving with explosive agility, he lunged forward, slamming his palm against the gunman's wrist and forcing the barrel upward just as a muffled thud echoed through the space, sending a bullet harmlessly into the ceiling plaster. A brutal, breathless struggle ensued in the confined hallway—fists colliding with bone, heavy boots sliding on polished wood, grunts of exertion cutting through the sudden chaos. Clara screamed, covering her mouth with her hands as she watched the violent ballet of survival unfold inches from her. With a final, decisive sweep, he drove his elbow into the second operative's temple, sending him collapsing limp to the floor beside his partner. Chest heaving, sweat dripping down his brow, he stood over the unconscious men, then quickly locked the shattered door from the inside. He turned back to Clara, his white shirt stained with smudges of dirt and a drop of blood that wasn't his. ""We have less than three minutes before their backup arrives,"" he said urgently, extending a hand to pull her up. ""Grab the envelope. We're running.""
