Chapter Thirty
Damien climbed up into the white corridor.
A boot connected with his chest, and he lost his grip.
He fell past Aviary and down the polished marble floor. His back hit a turnstile and he slipped through it, grasping for its edge.
An Azov soldier was leaning over the ledge above them. But not just any soldier, the sergeant.
Aviary—still scaling the wall—was an easy target, except the sergeant didn’t draw a weapon. Did she have one? Had she lost it in the explosion like everyone else?
Damien pulled himself onto one side of the turnstile.
‘You won’t win,’ the Azov sergeant said, her voice low and measured. ‘A legion of Purity Guard are coming for you now.’
Damien drew the Glock Nasira had given him. Seeing the look of surprise on the Azov sergeant’s face, he squeezed the
