The Breach

The silence that followed the power cut was heavier than the rain.

"Han?" Mei whispered, her voice trembling.

"Get down," Han’s voice came from the darkness. It was no longer the voice of a wounded man. It was the voice of the Dragon. Cold. Lethal. Absolute.

A red laser beam cut through the living room, scanning the wall where Mei had been standing seconds ago.

* Thwip. Thwip.*

Two rounds shattered the floor-to-ceiling window. Glass exploded inward, bringing the roar of the storm into the apartment.

Mei screamed, dropping to the floor and crawling behind the marble island.

Han was moving. She couldn't see him, but she could hear him. The wet slap of leather shoes on hardwood. The distinct mechanical slide of a weapon being racked.

"The nursery," Han shouted over the wind. "Mei! Get to the nursery!"

Shadows detached themselves from the balcony. Men in tactical gear, repelling down from the roof. The rival faction. They hadn't just wounded Han; they had hunted him home.

Mei scrambled on her hands and knees. The floor was wet with rain and glass. She cut her palm, but she didn't feel it. Leo. She had to get to Leo.

A figure loomed over the kitchen island, a silhouette against the lightning. He raised a rifle.

* Bang. Bang.*

Two shots rang out from the hallway. The silhouette crumpled, falling backward into the living room.

Han appeared at the edge of the kitchen. He was holding a heavy pistol in one hand and clutching his bleeding side with the other.

"Move!" Han roared. He grabbed Mei by the arm, hauling her to her feet.

They ran down the corridor. The penthouse, usually a sanctuary of silence, was now a war zone. Bullets chewed up the drywall around them. Han shoved Mei forward, turning back to fire blindly into the living room to provide cover.

They burst into the nursery.

Leo was awake, standing in his crib, wailing at the noise.

"Grab him," Han ordered, slamming the door and dragging a heavy dresser in front of it. It wouldn't hold them for long. "The service elevator. In the pantry. It runs on a separate generator."

Mei scooped Leo up. The baby felt hot and small in her arms. She grabbed a blanket, wrapping him tight against her chest.

"Han, you're losing too much blood," Mei said, seeing the fresh stain spreading down his trousers.

Han turned to her. In the dim light of the streetlamps filtering through the blinds, his face was pale, slick with sweat. He reached into his waistband and pulled out a backup piece—a smaller, snub-nosed revolver.

He pressed it into Mei’s free hand. The metal was warm from his body.

"If anyone comes through that door who isn't me, you pull the trigger," Han said. His eyes were fierce, burning with a terrifying intensity. "You don't hesitate. You aim for the center and you pull until it clicks."

"I can't," Mei sobbed, the weight of the gun terrifying her.

Han grabbed her face with his bloody hand. He smeared crimson on her cheek, a war paint she hadn't asked for.

"You can," he hissed. "You love him, don't you? You love my son?"

"Yes," Mei wept.

"Then be dangerous for him."

The dresser shuddered. Someone was kicking the door.

"Go," Han shoved her toward the connecting door to the pantry. "I'll buy you time."

"Han, come with us!"

"I'm right behind you. Go!"