John didn’t think.

  He acted.

  The moment the older man reached for his weapon, John moved.

  Most people fought reactively.

  They saw a threat. They hesitated. They planned. Then they acted.

  John wasn’t most people.

  He knew hesitation meant death.

  His foot snapped out before the man could fully draw his gun, striking his wrist with precise force. A crunch—then a curse. The weapon clattered to the floor.

  John was already turning.

  The younger guard’s eyes widened, his hand reaching for his own weapon—too slow.

  John lunged, grabbing the edge of the metal chair the kid had been tied to.

  With one swift motion, he swung it into the guard’s ribs. A sharp exhale—staggered steps back.

  Not enough to drop him. But enough to buy a second.

  John had learned something early on:

  A one-on-one fight was a fight.

  A two-on-one fight was a death sentence.

  You didn’t fight two people at once. You isolated one, took them out fast, then dealt with the other.

  Right now, the older man was still cradling his wrist, weapon lost. That meant the real threat was the younger one.

  John pivoted—no wasted movement.

  His fist slammed into the guard’s throat.

  Not hard enough to kill. Just enough to make breathing a nightmare.

  The man stumbled, choking—

  John grabbed the collar of his jacket and used his own momentum to pull him forward.

  Then he threw him headfirst into the wall.

  A dull thud.

  The man slumped.

  Two down.

  John turned back to the kid, heart pounding.

  The kid was watching him now, eyes wide with something between fear and shock.

  John knelt down, cutting the rope with a blade he’d pulled from the unconscious man’s boot.

  "Can you stand?" John asked.

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  The kid hesitated, then nodded.

  John didn’t waste another second.

  He grabbed the younger guard’s gun from the floor, checked the ammo, then pulled the kid to his feet.

  "Stay close," he ordered.

  The kid wobbled slightly but obeyed.

  John moved toward the door—

  And then he heard footsteps.

  Heavy. Rushing.

  More were coming.

  John cursed under his breath. No time to think.

  He shoved the gun into the back of his waistband and pulled the kid into motion.

  "Move!"

  They sprinted down the hallway, boots slamming against the floor.

  Behind them, voices shouted orders.

  John didn’t look back. Didn’t need to.

  He already knew the situation.

  They weren’t getting out unseen anymore.

  John didn’t bother with the front exit.

  Too obvious. Too many eyes.

  Instead, he led the kid toward the side loading dock—where shipments came in and out.

  As they reached the large storage floor, John spotted it.

  An old service ladder. Rusted, but intact. It led up to the catwalks that ran along the ceiling beams.

  A perfect route.

  John pointed. "Climb. Now."

  The kid hesitated. "What about you?"

  John turned, hearing the thunder of footsteps closing in.

  "I’ll be right behind you. Go!"

  The kid climbed.

  John spun, pressing himself into the shadows just as three men burst into the room.

  John kept his breathing steady.

  They didn’t know where he was yet.

  They were searching, scanning the crates, weapons drawn.

  John needed to buy time.

  Slowly, carefully, he grabbed a loose metal pipe from the floor.

  Then—he threw it.

  The clang echoed against the far wall.

  Immediately, two of the guards turned toward the noise, weapons raised.

  John used that moment.

  He sprinted. Fast. Silent.

  By the time the third man turned, John was already moving up the ladder.

  The kid had already reached the top, waiting near the edge of the catwalk.

  John climbed fast, hearing the shouts of realization below.

  "Up there!"

  Bullets cracked against metal.

  John swore, twisting his body to avoid the shots.

  Almost there.

  One final pull—

  Then he was on the catwalk.

  He grabbed the kid’s wrist. "Run."

  They dashed across the beams, the ground far below.

  John’s mind raced.

  They needed an exit.

  He saw it.

  A skylight.

  A single pane of glass separating them from the night.

  John didn’t slow.

  He jumped.

  The glass shattered around them.

  For a split second, they were weightless.

  Then—

  They hit the rooftop of the next building, rolling with the impact.

  John gritted his teeth, absorbing the force.

  The kid groaned but was still breathing.

  They made it.

  John pushed himself up, helping the kid to his feet.

  "Can you keep going?"

  The kid nodded.

  John exhaled, then grabbed his wrist.

  "Then let’s go."

  By the time they reached the lower streets, they had lost their pursuers.

  John took the kid to an abandoned lot, somewhere quiet, safe.

  Only then did he finally stop.

  "Alright," John said, catching his breath. "Start talking."

  The kid hesitated.

  Then—

  "I… I don’t know who they were," he admitted. "I was just—one day, they grabbed me. They kept asking questions, but I don’t know what they wanted."

  John frowned.

  "What kind of questions?"

  The kid swallowed. "About my parents. About my dad."

  John’s eyes narrowed.

  "Who’s your dad?"

  The kid hesitated.

  Then, in a small, unsteady voice—

  "I think… I think he used to work for Cain."

  John went still.

  This wasn’t random.

  Cain had kidnapped a kid whose father used to work for him.

  That meant one of two things.

  1. The father had information Cain wanted.

  2. The father had something Cain wanted.

  Either way—this was bigger than John had expected.

  And now, he was part of it.

  John exhaled slowly.

  He had tried to stay in the shadows.

  But it was too late.

  Cain wasn’t just watching him anymore.

  He was in the game now.

  And there was no way out.