All I’ve got left in my hand is Skippy’s forearm—fat, swollen, hand still attached.
Perfect.
It’s the one with the chip, too. Maybe Chicago’s shadiest gremlin can salvage something before everything goes straight to hell.
An attacker charges me, screaming like he’s the main character.
I don’t have patience for main characters.
I swing Skippy’s disembodied arm and bitch slap him across the face. Hard.
Something wet and disturbingly chunky splatters onto him, but I absolutely do not investigate.
He recoils, gagging. I pull my knife, and drive the blade straight into his skull. His eyes cross like a broken cartoon before he topples off the catwalk.
I don’t watch him fall because two more men and a woman rush me next, thinking numbers will help.
They won’t.
I grab Skippy’s empty stroller by the twisted frame, spin once, and hurl it with everything I’ve got.
It becomes a projectile.
A metal rocket of Walmart engineering.
It slams into all three of them. One man flies backward over the railing?—
—straight into a conveyor belt lined with chopping blades.
The machine doesn’t even break rhythm. Knife-liketeeth shred through whatever hits them, including the guy who made the mistake of fighting me today.
I don’t slow.
Saint is somewhere ahead, yelling and firing shots like the battlefield owes her rent. She takes on one hand-to-hand before pulling her blade and jabbing lightning fast into his throat. I run full sprint toward her.
“We need to go!” I shout.
“I KNOW THAT!” she screams back.
I reach her just in time to see a shooter raise their weapon and instinct takes over.
I grab Saint, yank her into my chest, and pivot so my back faces the threat.
The shot cracks.
White-hot pain rips through my shoulder, burning deep, dropping fire along my nerves. I grit my teeth and refuse to let go.
Saint looks up at me from the circle of my arms.
Her green eyes are wide—bright, furious, alive with the adrenaline of battle. Her breath comes fast against my throat. Sweat beads on her brow. She’s still gripping her gun, ready to kill the next idiot who tries us.
“Thanks,” she breathes.
My gaze drops to her mouth.
She licks her lips.
And my stomach does something irritating and warm.
