He dragged the unconscious or dead man behind a stack of wooden crates.

“Stay down,” Ryker murmured, his voice steady and cold.

Another set of footsteps approached the doorway.

“Report, Miller,” a voice static-cracked from the radio on the fallen mercenary’s shoulder.

Ryker stood by the side of the entrance, pressed flat against the stone.

A second mercenary peered through the doorway, his weapon raised high.

Before the man could adjust his vision to the darkness, Ryker lunged forward.

He grabbed the barrel of the rifle, forcing it upward as a short burst of bullets tore into the ceiling.

Plaster and dust rained down on us.

Owen let out a tiny, choked sob, burying his face in my side.

I held him tighter, my arm wrapped around Lily’s shoulders.

Ryker drove his elbow into the mercenary’s throat, a sickening crunch echoing in the small room.

The man stumbled backward, gasping for air, but Ryker didn’t give him a chance to recover.

He swept the man’s legs out from under him and brought the butt of his pistol down hard on his temple.

The mercenary went limp.