The silence inside the church was agonizing. Stiles pressed his back hard against the stone pillar, clutching his weapon, ears straining for the sound of the final attacker's footsteps. The young man was close. Too close.
Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors of the church burst open with a loud bang.
Out of nowhere, Ethan barged into the sanctuary, breathless and panicked. He hadn't been able to just sit tight at the safe house while Stiles acted as bait. But his timing couldn't have been worse.
The remaining attacker spun around. Seeing Ethan—his primary target—completely exposed in the center aisle, the gunman raised his weapon, shifting his focus instantly to kill him.
Stiles had no choice. He couldn't let Ethan die.
With a burst of pure adrenaline, Stiles abandoned his cover and lunged out into the open to draw the fire. Bang! A sharp, white-hot agony exploded through Stiles's shoulder as a bullet tore through flesh. Gasping for air, the force of the impact spun him around. Gritting his teeth through the blinding pain, Stiles grabbed Ethan by the collar, and together they threw themselves down a flight of stone steps leading toward a subterranean crypt beneath the altar.
They rolled into the darkness, crashing onto the cold stone floor hidden beneath the stairs. It was a classic Catholic church design—shadowy, damp, and completely concealed from the main floor above.
Stiles slumped against the wall, clutching his bleeding shoulder. Every breath was a battle; the bullet wound was agonizing, made even tighter and more suffocating by the rigid chest binder he wore beneath his clothes to maintain his identity. To Ethan and the rest of the world, he had to remain Stiles—the stoic, unbreakable male agent. He couldn't show a single hint of vulnerability that might compromise the secret he and Aunt Melissa guarded so fiercely.
Above them, the heavy tread of boots echoed on the stairs. A bright beam of a tactical torch sliced through the pitch blackness of the crypt, sweeping across the stone arches. The attacker was coming down, hunting them.
Stiles's vision was swimming. He looked down at his hands—they were trembling from blood loss. He couldn't aim. He couldn't shoot.
He shoved his sidearm into Ethan's hands. "You have to take him out," Stiles hissed, his voice a strained, gravelly whisper.
Ethan stared at the heavy pistol, his eyes wide with panic. "Stiles, I can't... I don't know how to do this. I've never shot anyone!"
"You can," Stiles pressed, gripping Ethan's jacket with his uninjured hand, forcing him to make eye contact through the dark. "Listen to me. Line up the sights. Squeeze, don't pull. He steps into the light, you put him down, or we both die here."
The torchlight swept closer, illuminating the dust motes just inches from their hiding spot under the stairs. The shadow of the gunman loomed over them.
Persuaded by the sheer desperation in Stiles's voice, Ethan's hands stabilized. He raised the weapon, mimicking the stance Stiles had just described.
The attacker rounded the corner, torch raised.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Ethan fired three times in rapid succession. The heavy echoing booms shattered the enclosed space. The attacker gasped, dropping the torch as the rounds hit their mark, and collapsed heavily onto the stone floor. Dead silence returned to the crypt.
They had done it. They had survived.
Somehow, through sheer willpower, they managed to slip out of the church, leave the chaotic scene behind, and finally make it to the secret house in Morocco they had been trying to reach all along.
Exhausted, battered, and bleeding, they locked themselves inside. They were desperate for just a few moments of rest, a fleeting chance to breathe and tend to Stiles's bullet wound. Leaving Ethan to keep watch, Stiles knew he needed medical supplies and toiletries to properly clean the shoulder and adjust the binder without revealing anything.