Scarlett folded the rifle in one swift motion, forcing the tremor from her hands.
“Sir, extraction route?”
Only static hissed back. Her blood ran cold. “Sir?”
The silence stretched, heavy as lead. She pressed the earpiece tighter, knuckles white, clinging as if it were her last lifeline. Nothing came back but dead static. Hope drained from her chest, inch by inch, like warmth seeping from a dying body.
She waited until every breath scraped her throat raw, until her heartbeat pounded like torture, until enemy footsteps swelled around her like a tide. But the voice she trusted never came. They caught her, cuffed her in cold steel and dragged her before Victor Kane.
Scarlett thrashed like a cornered animal, fury blazing. How had she failed to put a bullet through him? Victor regarded her lazily, swirling his drink before letting his eyes settle on her.
“Well,” he drawled, lips curving, “aren’t you a feisty little cat.” He tipped his glass toward her, voice laced with mockery. “Ryan sent you to kill me? He must be feeling bold.”
The mention of Ryan’s name snapped something inside her. She lifted her chin, voice sharp, “This has nothing to do with him. I hate you so much, I wanted you dead!”