“Tell him I said hi,” I rasp, twisting hard.
His wrist wrenches sideways.
The knife clatters.
He drives his knee up, catching my thigh. Pain spikes, leg half buckling. My grip slips, just enough.
The knife’s back in his hand.
He goes for my throat this time.
There’s a blur of movement to my left, the familiarwhumpof metal on flesh.
Lark.
She comes in from his blind side, bat in both hands, and cracks him across the back of the skull.
He folds like a bad chair, collapsing against me, then to the floor.
I shove him off, chest heaving.
“That’s my bat,” she pants.
“Remind me never to steal it,” I manage.
The second shooter is still moving, crawling for the gun that landed near the overturned chair.
“Lark—” I start.
“Got it,” she says, already on him.
He swings an arm toward her, slow and sloppy. She steps in, pivoting on the ball of her foot, and brings her heel down hard on his wrist. The gun-hand slams to the floor. He howls, fingers spasming.
I hear her earlier voice in my head—weight down, straight line, no mercy—and something like pride flickers even through the adrenaline.
I grab the dropped gun, kick his away for good measure, and level ours at his face.
He freezes.
The cabin is a mess of broken glass, upended furniture, and heavy breathing.
“Two?” Lark pants, eyes flicking toward the busted window.
“Four inside,” I say. “Doesn’t mean there aren’t more outside.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows.
“How’d you find us?” I ask the guy at my feet.
He laughs, low and ugly.
“It was easy,” he says. “Of course you’d have Maddox helping you. And Luka owns his enemies.”
Maddox has enemies? Willing to talk?
“Who?” I ask.
He laughs, almost maniacally and I press the gun against his forehead. “She’s been after Maddox a while. NS-11, Serafina.”
