The Gender War (The Gender Game #4) by Bella Forrest (the beginning after the end read novel .TXT) 📕

She crumpled to the ground. The second guard made as if to scramble away, and Viggo tackled her, wrapping his arm around her neck in a chokehold. When her hands came up and began beating at his head, I shoved the barrel of my gun into her chest, and she stilled, then succumbed to unconsciousness. My left hand shook from the weight, and I yanked the dangerous thing away from her as soon as her body relaxed.

The corridors outside were empty—too empty. We followed the guard’s instructions and reached still more stairs. There were only two more flights down before we would be at the hallway that led to the garage. The stairs were also clear. The alarm was fainter inside the stairwell, but the crashes and thumps we’d been hearing were louder. Much louder.

We cautiously made our way down the stairs, where I pulled open yet another door for Viggo, letting him check this hallway. He gave me a little nod and stepped through, and I followed.

A rapid burst of gunfire filled the hall, and I reflexively leapt right, into a doorway, pressing my back into it to make myself as small a target as possible. Shards of stone and mortar flew everywhere as bullets pounded the walls.

I looked over and saw Viggo pressed into a doorframe farther down. “Dammit, she was hiding around the corner!” he swore. Bullets impacted around him as the unknown shooter unloaded her clip. Anger flooding through my veins, I grabbed my pistol from the waist of my pants, gripping it tightly in my left hand.

Taking a deep breath, I called a warning to Viggo before sticking my arm out and firing down the hall at the shooter. I wasn’t trying to aim, which was good, because I wasn’t sure I was capable of hitting anything with this hand—but I did hear a yelp of surprise, and the gunfire stopped for a moment.

My eardrums were throbbing from the thunderous cracks of bullets being fired, and my wrist stung from the recoil of the gun, but I ignored the pain. Taking a step into the hallway, I dropped to one knee and raised my gun, using my other wrist as a brace since my hand couldn’t have taken the pressure.

I aimed for a spot to the left, and waited. Sure enough, the guard swung back into view, her body in a half crouch, and I squeezed the trigger repeatedly, a yell escaping my throat, watching all my shots go wide.

My pistol fired a final time and then clicked. The woman raised her rifle again, but something caught her in the shoulder—Viggo’s shot. She gave a small cry and dropped her gun, her hand going up to cover the spurting wound. Viggo pushed past me, colliding with the woman and slamming her head against the ground.

The faint wailing of the alarm and the sound we’d been hearing continued even louder—a series of sharp bursts—gunfire.

Viggo rolled the unconscious guard over and I raced toward him to see him peering at a door just around the corner. “She was guarding this door—I think it’s the garage door.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” I said, and he yanked it open for me, reversing our familiar pattern. I crouched on the other side of the door and looked out as the sound of guns firing and bullets ricocheting burst from the room beyond.

Outside, I saw why the corridors had been so empty. I looked out at a low catwalk lining a giant garage. It was the size of a warehouse, with rows and rows of vehicles lined up in pristine condition—well, they probably had been before the battle. A huge box of a vehicle, with massive tires and blacked-out rear windows, was pulled halfway out of one of the rows. An overturned four-wheeler lay between it and the rows of palace guards who lined the catwalk on the wall perpendicular to this one, resting their automatic weapons on the railing and firing without a break. The bullets seemed to ping off harmlessly—the SUV must be armored. Every so often an answering shot rang out from the people concealed behind its tinted windows. I caught sight of a few metal steps between us and the guards which led from the catwalk down to the garage floor.

It seemed nobody had noticed the open door. I looked back at Viggo and filled him in.

He nodded grimly. “That’s gotta be Ms. Dale. I hope Owen got to her. If we force those guards to take cover, we can get to them.”

I surveyed my single handgun. I’d dropped the empty one on the floor behind us. “I’ve only got one clip left.”

Viggo nodded. “Then we’ve gotta make it count. All at once—make them think there’s a whole company of us.”

We looked levelly into each other’s eyes for a moment, Viggo’s sharp green gaze speaking volumes to me. I hoped mine said all the things that swelled in my heart for that tiny moment. Then Viggo signaled go, and the two of us burst out into the garage, guns firing.

Thankfully, we didn’t need to aim. The effect of our unexpected attack was immediate: the group of guards scattered, some of them pulling back against the wall of the garage, some of them dropping to the floor of the metal catwalk and crawling back toward the next room.

Viggo behind me, I took the few steps down to the garage floor at a run. I saw why none of the guards were by this door when the SUV’s driver’s side window, which pointed toward us with the windshield facing the guards, rolled down just enough that the point of a shotgun could be seen poking out.

“Ms. Dale, Owen!” I shouted, waving my arms. “Don’t shoot! It’s us!”

The window flashed a couple more inches down, and the woman inside—it was Ms. Dale, thank goodness—nodded. “We'll be right there!” Then the boxy SUV reversed suddenly, speeding out from behind the four-wheeler that had sheltered its tires, skidding to a halt beside