The front rank opened fire. The man dove behind the marble reception desk. Bullets reduced the furniture to stone dust, but he'd already rolled aside.
His hand found the shotgun dropped by a dead guard earlier. Twelve rounds. He mentally tallied each shell. The first blast shredded an attacker's knee. The second gutted another. The third sent a jaw flying. He moved in a spiral, using pillars as fleeting cover.
When the shotgun clicked empty, he hurled it at an overzealous mercenary's head. The skull caved with a sound like a crushed walnut.
Bare hands now.
A two-meter giant blocked his path, wielding a modified chainsaw. The serrated blade roared.
The man arched back, dodging the first swing. The blade grazed his stomach, tearing his shirt. With a backhand, he struck the fuel tank. Gasoline sprayed, dousing the brute.
"Smoke?" he offered, pulling a lighter from his pocket.
The explosion turned the giant into a screaming torch. The man shoved him into a cluster of attackers, triggering a chain reaction of burning chaos.
The heat grew unbearable. Silk curtains ignited, turning the hall into a furnace. Black smoke choked visibility—an edge for someone fighting on instinct.
He snatched a steel cable from a shattered chandelier. It whistled through the air, coiling around the neck of a sniper on the mezzanine. A sharp tug, and the body crashed ten meters below.
A knife sliced his thigh. He countered with an elbow that pulped the assailant's nose. Another tried to tackle him. They rolled across the scorching marble, trading vicious blows. The man ended it by driving his thumbs into the man's eye sockets until something snapped under his knuckles.
His clothes were charred tatters. His blood mixed with theirs, forming sticky trails underfoot. But his eyes blazed with cold resolve.
The last group recoiled instinctively.
"Leaving already?" he sneered, yanking a dangling electrical wire from the ceiling.
Sparks danced as he whipped it toward them.
When the final body fell, the man stood hunched, hands on knees. Sweat and blood dripped from his chin, pooling in dark splotches on the marble.
The hall was a smoldering ruin. Flames licked the drapes, corpses piled in grotesque poses. The stench of burnt flesh mingled with coppery blood and acrid gunpowder.
A slow clap echoed through the charred space.
"Bravo, Roman. Always so theatrical in your… cleanups."
The man looked up. Through the haze of smoke swirling with the glow of lingering flames, a figure emerged on the grand staircase. A black evening gown hugged her curves, hair pulled into a tight bun.
A faint tic twitched Roman's jaw.
"You could've spared me the mercenary circus," he growled, tearing a strip of charred shirt from his thigh wound.
She descended the steps, sidestepping blood puddles with distaste.
"Where's the fun in that?" She smiled, revealing overly sharp canines. "Besides… I had to see if age had rusted you."
Roman ignored the jab. His gaze swept the shifting shadows behind her. Something slithered along the walls, devouring corpses with a rustle like crumpled silk.
"You travel with a strange menagerie," he rumbled, nodding at the black forms liquefying a body.
Page stopped three steps away. "She's an… enthusiastic collaborator."
As if summoned, a second woman emerged from a pillar. Younger. Smoke-gray trench coat. But what caught Roman's eye were hers—or their absence. Two pitch-black sockets oozed liquid shadow.
"Smells like has-been in here," Eve spat, kicking a shattered skull. Her "gaze" locked onto Roman. "You went hard for an old guy."
Page raised a silk-gloved hand. "Outside?"
Eve shrugged, shadows rippling around her like a living cloak.
Roman clenched his fists. The scars on his left forearm itched suddenly. A fleeting memory: screams in a Slavic tongue, the taste of hot lead on his lips.
Page followed his stare. "Still those old ghosts?" she murmured, reaching for his scar.
He stepped back. "Why are you here?"
Page's smile turned melancholic. She twirled a golden eye-shaped pendant that had slipped from her neckline. "I've been summoned to Joranis. Zaun, to be precise."
"And that concerns me how?" he asked, turning away.
A whistle cut the air. Roman dodged instinctively, but Eve's shadow blade wasn't aimed at him. It sliced clean through the arm of a dying mercenary reaching for his gun.
"Gratitude's a lost art," Eve snickered, juggling another blade between shadowy fingers.
Page ignored the exchange, trailing Roman as he headed for a side exit.
"You know what it means."
He froze. Then spun, grabbing her shoulders. In the corner, Eve growled, shadows bristling like an angry cat.
"You think you know me so well," he hissed. "But don't ever think you can turn me into one of your puppets."
Page didn't flinch. "You need redemption…" She paused. "A redemption I can give you."
A crash broke their standoff.
"Feds are twenty minutes out," she said, licking a blood splatter off her cheek. Her face twisted in disgust. "Tastes awful. Killed a diabetic, old man?"
Page stepped back. "Come with me."
Roman barked a hoarse laugh. "I'll follow…"
"Your daughter…"
Roman seized her throat before he even registered moving. Eve stayed calm, almost bored.
Page didn't resist. A sad smile curved her lips. Her fingers brushed his temple.
He shoved her back hard.
"You're afraid of hope," she spat, rising with blood trickling from her scalp. "That's your real prison."
Roman breathed like a cornered bull. "And you?" he sneered. "Still working for bastards?"
Distant sirens cut the tension. Page checked her wristwatch. "Fifteen minutes." She adjusted her bun with a shaky hand. "My offer stands."
She handed him a cream envelope sealed with black wax.
"Flight leaves at 4 a.m., Hangar 7."
Roman took it with hesitant fingers.
"And if I refuse?"
Page was already walking away.
"Then keep running," her voice tolled like a bell. "But remember—death runs faster."
Eve flipped him off before dissolving into a swirl of darkness. Page strode toward a side exit, a fur coat materializing over her shoulders.
"Wait!"
She paused without turning.
"She…" Roman's voice cracked. "Does she…?"
A beat of silence. Then:
"She still asks for you."
She vanished down a side hall. Roman stood alone amid the wreckage, the envelope burning in his hand like a torn-out heart.
Above, a helicopter's spotlight swept the scene. Cops stormed in, barking orders.
He read the envelope.
Hangar 7 – I hate waiting.
A joyless smile cracked his chapped lips.
As he slipped into a ventilation shaft, Page's last words echoed.
Death runs faster.
---
Eve paced the cabin, muttering.
"We've been twiddling our thumbs forever," she growled, grinding her cigarette into a crystal ashtray.
Page lounged in a leather armchair, swirling whiskey in her glass. Ice clinked softly.
"He'll come," she murmured, eyes fixed on the porthole.
Eve snorted. "You saw him back there? Guy was barely standing by some miracle."
A faint smile touched Page's lips. "Roman's survived things that'd make your shadows weep."
"How much longer are we waiting for that old wreck?" Eve snapped, shooting Page a sharp look.
Page didn't answer right away. She sipped her drink.
"He'll come."
Eve sighed loudly. "You're too damn sure of yourself. Maybe he's decided to stay and play vigilante."
A ghost of a smile flickered on Page's face. She set her glass on the mahogany table. "Patience, dear. The pieces are falling into place. And Roman…" She paused. "Roman's a key piece."
Eve stopped short, pivoting toward her. "Key? For what? Your little bullshit game? Or to clean up your messes?"
"Maybe both. Or maybe something else."
Eve rolled her eyes, exasperated, and flopped back into her seat with a grunt. "You're unbearable when you get all cryptic." She glared at the cabin door. "If he doesn't show, I swear I'll go back and rip his head off myself."
With a swift flick, Eve tossed a tablet into Page's hands. But before her fingers closed around it, a dull thud echoed from the rear of the jet. The cargo door creaked open, and a hulking figure stepped out. Roman emerged, draped in a coat with sleeves too short, exposing his scarred forearms.
Eve shot to her feet. "Took your damn time, old man!"
Roman ignored her, locking eyes with Page. He stepped forward and tossed the crumpled envelope onto the table. "Here I am. Proud of yourself?"