“What?”
“RUN!”
I slam my door into the nearest thug, catching him in the knee. Shots crack immediately, ricocheting off the containers. Lark bolts toward the gap between the cars, knife flashing in the dark.
I follow—until the leader’s arm snaps out, his pistol slamming into her ribs. She stumbles, gasps, and—
Gods.
Blood blooms dark across her jacket.
No. No. No.
“Lark!”
She turns toward me, eyes wide, mouth parting like she wants to say something. But nothing comes. She crumples to the asphalt.
Everything in me goes still.
No roaring engines, no shouting thugs, no pounding heart. There’s just that sharp, ugly silence right before something breaks.
My gaze lifts from her body to the man who hit her.
Rey’s bald guy. Smiling, like he’s proud.
That smile is the last thing he’ll ever do.
I don’t remember moving, and then I’m on him before his finger can twitch. The gun jerks sideways as I ram my forearm into his throat, driving him back into the shipping container hard enough to rattle steel. My other hand crushes his wrist until the pistol clatters free.
He swings wild. I’m already inside his reach. My forehead slams into his nose. His cartilage crunches, hot spray across my cheek. He gasps; I wrench his head sideways and snap it against the corrugated wall with a wet, wooden crack.
Die. Die. Die.
The second guy is on me before the first hits the floor. He’s bigger, faster, but all I see is red. Lark’s blood soaking her jacket, the smell of cheap cigarettes, night as black as her Camaro. Bruises bloom on my knuckles.
Pain. A lot of pain.
The man’s knife flashes in shadow; I catch his wrist mid-swing, twist until tendons pop. The blade drops. I drive my knee into his gut once, twice, feel the air leave him, then jam the knife into the hollow under his jaw until the hilt kisses skin.
He collapses heavy and useless. I shove him aside as the third man lifts a gun. I don’t think. I grab the body at my feet, use it as a shield, and hear dull thunk-thunk as rounds bury into flesh that isn’t mine. Before the shooter can correct, I roll the corpse off and dive, slamming into his legs. He goes down screaming. The pistol skids away.
I’m on his chest before he can breathe, hands around his throat, thumbs pressing deep until the pulse slows… and stops.
The last one bolts.
Smart. Not smart enough.
I snatch the dropped pistol, aim past the shaking in my arm, and put a round in his back. He sprawls forward, twitches once, then stills.
Silence again. Real silence this time.
I stand, chest heaving; the reek of blood and gunpowder hangs in the cold air. Four bodies. No witnesses. My girl is dying on me.
“Lark.”
I’m at her side in a heartbeat, knees tearing at the asphalt. She’s still breathing, and her eyes flutter when I press my hand over the wound.
“You’re okay,” I say, because what else is there? My hands are slick and warm with her blood and I can’t stop pressing down.
