The air cracked like lightning.
John moved before the others could react, thrusting the iron stick backward into the first attacker's throat. The man stumbled, gagging, and collapsed. At the same time, John reached beneath a loose floorboard behind his chair—one he'd rigged long ago—and pulled out a compact pistol.
Two more assassins surged from opposite flanks, swift and silent.
Bang. Bang.
One shot struck the attacker on the left, spinning him into a shelf with a grunt. The other dropped into a low roll, curved blades flashing from his boots.
John grabbed Shen's arm. "Under the table—now."
She obeyed without question, crawling beneath the massive reading table as Dong darted to her side, crouching low and still.
John pivoted as blades slashed across the oak tabletop. He kicked the table forward into the attacker, knocking him back a step.
"Dong!"
The dog erupted from beneath the table, a blur of snarling muscle and teeth. He launched at the attacker, jaws clamping down on his wrist. The man screamed as one of his blades clattered to the floor.
John vaulted over the table and grabbed a thick book—leather-bound and brutal. He slammed it into the man's head. Once. Twice. The assassin crumpled beneath Dong's growl.
A whisper of air—wrong, high.
John's eyes snapped upward.
A fourth assassin dove from the second-floor balcony, spinning mid-air, a throwing blade glinting in her hand.
He didn't aim—he reacted.
Crack.
The bullet caught the blade mid-flight, deflecting it into the wall just above Shen's head.
The woman landed lightly, sprinting toward the staircase. John followed, boots thudding over ancient wood.
At the midpoint, he kicked open a false panel. Click. A hidden drawer snapped open, revealing a revolver wrapped in red cloth. He yanked it free.
At the top of the stairs, a fifth figure blocked his path. Towering. Armored gloves gleamed with embedded steel.
They collided.
The revolver fired once—miss. The giant slammed into John, sending the gun skidding away. They grappled, fists crashing into ribs and shoulders, each strike like thunder.
John ducked a punch, swept the man's legs, and kicked the revolver up from the ground. It spun through the air—he caught it and fired point-blank.
The giant staggered, roaring, but didn't fall.
John didn't give him the chance. With a burst of fury, he shoulder-checked the man over the railing.
He fell like a stone, crashing into a shelf below. Books flew in every direction, cascading like an avalanche.
Back below, Dong growled again. Shen huddled under the table, still and small.
A sixth figure—one John hadn't seen—slipped in from the shadows, a knife glinting as he moved silently toward the hiding girl.
But Dong was faster.
The dog lunged, intercepting the assassin mid-step. The man slashed, grazing the dog's side, but Dong held firm, snarling, buying time.
John leapt from the stairs, landing hard behind the attacker. He drove a shoulder into the man's back.
They hit the floor in a crash of limbs. The knife slid away. The assassin twisted, slashing John's arm with a hidden blade.
John growled, rolling free, blood on his sleeve.
He scrambled behind the librarian's desk, yanked open another hidden compartment.
A sawed-off shotgun glinted in the dust.
The assassin charged.
John stood.
BOOM.
The blast echoed like thunder. The man flew backward into the card catalog, splinters and index cards exploding into the air.
Silence.
Dust drifted through golden light.
Dong limped slightly but padded back beneath the table, nosing Shen gently.
She reached out and touched his fur. "Dong?"
The dog let out a soft huff, then lay beside her.
John leaned against the desk, chest heaving. Blood dripped from his arm, painting the floor in dots.
He looked at Shen—still hidden, still alive.
Then he looked at the door.
Still closed.
For now.
He sank into the chair by the window, the frame groaning under his weight.
"It's starting again," he muttered.
Dong whined.
Shen's voice floated from beneath the table, soft but steady. "Then end it."
John's eyes narrowed. He stared at the shotgun in his lap, then at the wreckage of bodies and books around him.
He wasn't done.
Not yet.