“Birdie,” he bites out, “where are you?”
“Back lot,” I say, moving toward the rear of the building. “Rounding toward the dock.”
“Stay outside. I’m coming out the side door.”
“Negative,” Arrow says. “They’ve just locked it from the inside. They’re funneling to the exits. You’ve got one clear escape route—rear loading dock. But there are two guards moving that way.”
“Make it zero guards,” Knight growls.
“Working on it.”
I don’t think.
I run.
Around the corner, up the short metal steps to the back dock. The floodlight flares to life, painting me in white. For a second, I freeze.
A guard at the far end of the dock whips around.
We lock eyes.
Shit.
No more sneaky tonight.
“Hey!” he barks, reaching for the gun at his hip.
My bat is in my hand before my brain catches up.
I leap forward.
Feet pounding. Heart in my throat.
He lifts his weapon.
Too slow.
I swing.
The bat cracks against his wrist with a sickening thud. The gun clatters to the concrete and skids away. He swears and grabs his arm, stumbling.
“Sorry!” I gasp. “Okay, not sorry?—”
He lunges.
I duck and swing again, catching him behind the knee. He crashes down, cursing.
The second guard reaches for his radio.
I fling the bat.
It slams into his chest hard enough to knock him against the wall, the wind leaving his lungs in a wheezingoof.
I sprint, grab the bat, whirl, and square my stance between them and the door.
“Anybody else want a concussion?” I ask, panting.
They glare.
