Married to the Billionaire Who Betrayed Me novel Chapter 246

Chapter 246 Shooting Our Way Out Alive

The recoil punches the center of my palm. A deafening crack tears through the soundproof office. The bullet strikes the broker’s right shoulder. His body twists from the impact. He drops the suppressed pistol. The black weapon clatters on the hardwood floor.

Tristan moves. A blur of lethal motion. He crosses the room and kicks the pistol under the heavy oak desk. He grabs the broker by the lapels of his custom

jacket. He slams the wounded man against the polished wood surface.

Tristan turns his head. His storm-gray eyes lock onto mine. He ignores the bleeding cut on his arm.

“Are you hit?” Tristan demands. His chest heaves.

“I am clear,” I reply. I lower the barrel of my gun a fraction of an inch. My hands shake. I ignore the tremor. I focus on his face. “The vault?”

Tristan reaches into his torn tuxedo pocket. He pulls out a sleek, silver rectangle. The master data drive.

“The decryption cleared the final barrier just as you called for help,” Tristan says. He slips the drive back into his pocket. “I grabbed the hardware. We own the ledger.”

The broker groans. Blood stains the shoulder of his jacket. He grips the edge of the desk.

“You are dead, the broker spits. Pain coats his voice. “My men heard that gunshot. They will swarm this room. They will tear you apart.

“Let them try,” Tristan says. He strikes the broker behind the ear with the heavy hilt of the stolen combat knife. The broker’s eyes roll back. He collapses onto the floor,

Heavy boots pound the carpeted floor of the hallway. The four elite guards from the VIP lounge charge the broken doorway.

Tristan flips the massive oak desk on its side. He creates a wooden shield. He grabs my waist. He pulls me down behind the thick wood.

Gunfire erupts.

Bullets shred the top edge of the desk. Wood splinters rain down on my hair. The noise rings in my ears. The smell of sulfur and burning carpet fills the tight space.

“The back stairwell, Tristan orders. He points toward a steel fire door marked with a red exit sign. “Move.”

We run. We weave through the panicked crowd. A stray bullet shatters a mirror on the wall next to my head. Glass shards bite my bare shoulder. A sharp

sting follows. I ignore it. I keep my pace synced with my husband.

We reach the fire door. Tristan shoves it open. We step into a narrow, unlit concrete stairwell. He slams the heavy steel door shut. He throws the deadbolt.

The sudden quiet contrasts the chaos of the lounge. The thick concrete muffles the screams and the gunfire.

Tristan drops the stolen weapon. He presses me back against the cold wall. The air in the stairwell is freezing.

He crowds my space. His hands roam over my arms, my neck, my waist. A frantic, desperate search for bullet holes. He finds the shallow cut on my shoulder from the flying glass. He touches the warm blood. His jaw tightens.

“It is nothing,” I whisper. I catch his wrists. I halt his search. “I am whole.”