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One down, three to go.
Clint crept through the hall in full-on stealth mode. His silent footsteps still seemed to echo in the empty chamber, breaths shuddering in his ears. He approached a corner and flattened himself against the wall. On the count of three, he flung himself around the corner, saber at the ready.
Another hall, empty and full of more rooms to clear.
They had to be around here somewhere.
He moved forward again, head on a swivel. He had just entered the first room when his senses went onto high alert at the sound of a scream.
A little girl's scream.
Breathe, Clint. Focus. He pulled in several deep, steadying breaths. Clear the rest of the rooms first.
Another scream, longer and louder.
Another room cleared. A scream from down the hall. Repeat.
And then he stood outside the door. His fingers flexed around the handle of his sword, and he readjusted his grip. His suit, already dampened with sweat, seemed to pull all heat in the air through the black cloth. His breath turned into condensation under his mask. He didn't know what lay behind the door; for all he knew, someone played a recording to lure him to his death, but it didn't matter.
He didn't have anything to live for anyway.
Deep breath—in and out.
In a move that spoke of years of practice and experience, he forced the door open with two swift kicks to the latch.
It took only a quick glance around the room to discard the recording idea.
A child whimpered on the floor in the middle of the room, curled in a fetal position, illuminated by the single lightbulb that hung bare from the ceiling. Another one lay in a corner. And one man stood between them, a pistol pointed directly at Clint's chest. He dove out of the way, but the bullet lodged itself in his arm with an impact that threw him against the wall. Adrenaline numbed the pain, and he jumped to his haunches. That's gonna hurt later.
He tossed his sword from his right hand to his left, reached down into his boot, and with barely a flick of his wrist, sent a dagger flying into his opponent's chest. The man staggered forward a couple of steps before falling to the floor face-down.
Clint approached and rolled him over with a boot. The man's head lolled from side to side, his eyes open but unseeing. One less man to terrorize children. Good riddance. He turned to the girl that still cried in the middle of the room. His instincts warred within himself, half wanting to leave and send someone else to take care of the children, half telling the father in him that it was his responsibility.
He knelt next to her and pulled his mask down. "Hey there, are you all right?"
She looked up at him with terror-filled eyes and whimpered. His stomach clenched, and he swallowed hard at the blood coating her face. He raised a gloved hand and gently wiped some away, causing her to let out a sharp cry and jerk away.
He frowned and placed a hand underneath her chin, turning her face toward him again. He sucked in a breath at what he hadn't realized earlier. The shallow cuts that covered her face made anger churn in his gut. "He did this to you?" The words came out in a raspy whisper. He glanced over at her companion laying against the wall and slowly rose to his feet. "I'll be right back, I'm just gonna go check on your friend, all right?"
She didn't respond, and he didn't know if she was too terrified to speak, or if she just couldn't understand him. Unfortunately, he didn’t speak enough Russian to try and keep up a conversation.
As he approached the form that lay in the shadows, he realized that she wasn’t moving. Her tangled hair lay matted against her face, glued by dried blood. He picked up her wrist and paused. I’ve got a pulse. He pulled her into his arms, grunting at the strain it put on his wound, and carried her closer to the other girl. He lowered her back to the floor and gingerly peeled a few strands of hair away from her mouth before studying her face more closely in the dim light.
His breath left him, and he clenched his jaw until it ached. His eyes burned, and he turned away, unable to stare any longer.
Brown hair, thin lips, petite nose…she could've been Lila's twin.
His breath came in gasps that made his chest heave underneath the heavy black fabric, and his feet seemed nailed to the floor. His blood pounded in his ears, complementing the pain that pulsed through his shoulder and up through his neck. The pressure built until he couldn't hold it in anymore. Screaming—in rage, anguish, or something else, he couldn't tell and wasn't going to try to find out —he picked up his sword, turned, and plunged it into the floor next to the dead man.
Chest heaving, he looked at the girls, who hadn't moved. Something deep inside him, something that he’d thought was long gone, told him to take care of them.
But they couldn’t go with him.
He hooked his good arm around the shoulder of the dead man and dragged him out of the room, jerking his saber out of the floor on the way. Someone would be along to take care of them.
Ronin had other things to do.