They're not sure what's happening.
"Eight."
But they're not backing down either.
"Seven."
I scan the surroundings, looking for whatever trap this man clearly has set up. Snipers in the trees? Hidden explosives? A secret army waiting in the shadows?
"Six."
Nothing.
There's nothing.
"Five."
He's just sitting there with his eyes closed, counting down from ten like his life doesn't depend on what happens next.
"Four."
He's absolutely mad,I realize.Completely, utterly, gloriously insane.
The thought makes something in my chest spark with recognition.
Takes one to know one, doesn't it?
I pull my blades from the sheaths at my back.
The metal sings as it comes free—silent to anyone who isn't listening for it, deadly to anyone who isn't prepared for it.
I don't know this man.
Don't owe him anything.
But six against one isn't fair, and something about the way he's sitting there—socertainthat he's going to survive, soconfidentin forces that clearly aren't coming?—
It reminds me of myself.
Before hope died.
Before the golden ticket burned.
Before I realized that certainty is just another kind of delusion.
I move.
The first attacker goes down before he realizes I'm there—blade across his Achilles tendons, dropping him to the ground in a screaming heap. The second tries to turn, to face the new threat, but I'm already behind him—tombé, coupé, relevé—ballet steps transformed into murder, my dagger finding the soft tissue between his ribs.
The third one—a mountain of a man, twice my size—swings his chain at me.
I duck.
Drop into a split.
Drive my blade upward into his inner thigh.
Femoral artery.
