Killian heard the sharp whiz of bullets before he even saw his attacker, a big dude, face hidden behind a ballistic mask, arms steady as he swung a submachine gun right at him.
Without thinking, Killian hit the deck, bullets tearing through the air just inches above him, splintering wood and sending shards flying. Moving fluidly, he rolled sideways, yanking a kitchen knife from the counter. No way he could rely on his pistol—it barely had a few rounds left. He knew damn well he wouldn’t survive a straight-up shootout, no matter how badly he wanted to.
The gunman pushed forward, closing the distance, muzzle aimed dead at Killian’s face. All it would take was one pull of the trigger.
‘Bad move, dude,’ Killian thought.
In a flash, he lunged. Too fast for the guy to react. Killian's left h
