Just when Tryson was certain Angel had completely left the room, disappearing down the corridor like a ghost vanishing into the night, he found himself frozen, eyes locked on the door that now trembled under the force of Alex's men jamming against it.
Their muffled shouts and the aggressive thudding of boots sent adrenaline surging through his veins. He scanned the room frantically—there had to be something, anything, he could use to stop them once they burst through.
His gaze swept over scattered debris, broken furniture, shadows dancing in the dim light—and then, almost like fate had heard his silent plea, he noticed it.
A tangled mess of naked wires lay coiled near the edge of the room, half-hidden under a discarded sheet of metal. In a flash, he was moving.
