She scrambles on all fours, diving behind the old couch just as the cabin door explodes inward, splintered wood skittering across the floor.
The world narrows.
I’m on my feet in front of her without thinking, heart pounding, eyes already tracking entry points, cover, angles. There’s a fireplace poker next to the hearth and her metal bat propped by the wall.
I grab the bat.
Better reach.
The first guy through the door is all black: hoodie, mask, gloves. No words, no hesitation. Just a gun up and sweeping the room.
Suppressor.
Of course.
We don’t get the courtesy of noise.
He pivots toward the couch—toward where Larkwas—and I move without thinking, swinging the bat in a tight arc.
It connects with his wrist with a sickening crack.
He grunts, gun flying, and staggers back.
A second shape slips in behind him, smaller, quieter, gun already up. Laser sight skims the wall as they step around the first guy’s shoulder.
“Down!” I bark, dropping sideways as the laser crosses, swinging the bat again.
The first shot is a muffledfthpthat tears through the air where my chest was a heartbeat ago. Plaster explodes off the wall. Lark curses softly, ducking lower behind the couch.
The bat connects with something solid on the second swing—colliding with the second shooter’s knee. He crumples with a strangled cry, shot going wide, punching a neat hole through the front window.
Another shooter comes from behind, and I slam the bat across his skull and I’m not sure if he’s dead or alive, but he falls fast. Blood spills from his head. He’s not getting up anytime soon.
The last guy looks at his buddy on the ground and aims his gun right at me. “You fucked up, kid,” he says, aiming his shot.
I lunge right at him, swinging the bat at his face, a move he wasn’t expecting. I connect and he goes down. Lights out.
Fuck.
So much for logs and firelight.
The whole front of the cabin is open now. Cold air knifes in, carrying the smell of pine and cordite.
The first guy recovers faster than I like.
He barrels into me, shoulder in my ribs, driving me back into the corner of the stone hearth. Pain explodes up my side. The bat slips from my grip, clattering away.
We slam into the wall, his weight pinning me. He’s stronger up close than I expected. Or I’m more tired. Maybe both.
He goes for a knife—a flash of matte black at his hip.
I grab his wrist, muscles screaming, fighting the downward plunge. His breath is hot against my face, the lower half of his features covered by a cheap balaclava.
“Hayes,” he grunts, voice muffled. “The boss sends his regards.”
So Lukadoesknow exactly who he’s paying for.
Great.
