The bastard bailiff’s strides are fast now. Nearly too swift for me to keep pace. I scrutinize every inch of our journey for how I should fight back—the secluded alley, the dingy brick buildings, the piles of trash, the puddles of sewer runoff, the rickety fire-escape stairways, and the boarded windows.
Nothing sticks out, aside from the decaying city musk blending with urine and pot and some expertly cooked onions. Like the offensive stench of a corpse. Vomit shoots up my esophagus.
My self-defense techniques are admittedly rusty. I have a pretty strong palm strike. I landed a few on Dalton, not that it did me much good. The idea of turning this into a physical altercation has sweat slicking my spine and my tongue growing heavy.
But my eyes land on another man, standing by a car at the end of the long alley, staring back at us. This might be my only opportunity to get home to Remy. It will give Ryker the chance to find me. I have to do it.
As soon as the thought floods me, my ankle twists on the uneven asphalt, and I tumble to the ground.
The bailiff cusses, getting up in my face and hissing at me to stand. I try to scramble to my feet, knowing I can fight better from a standing position, but my ankle hurts.
And it pisses me off.
The pain. The hiding. The not being home with my baby. I’m so fucking tired of this shit. Of shards and lies and monsters preying on me.
My shattered glass.
When you’re reduced to shards, it’s impossible not to slice those around you.
That’s right. It’s time to fucking cut. Years’ worth of rage have me viewing everyday items in a different light.
“Stick to simple defense moves, and remember, anything can be a weapon.”
Life boils down to moments. I refuse to trade them all without a valiant swing.
But I know I only get one chance here. So, I take it.
Ripping off my stiletto, which the bailiff mistakes as me soothing my sore ankle, I grip the base of the shoe and thrust the spiked heel with every morsel of strength I possess into the asshole’s eye socket.
He emits a beastly squawk that echoes off the metal and brick and power lines to create a tunnel of resounding anguish.
Blood squirts and oozes and trickles.
He stumbles backward and drops as the other guy dashes toward me.
Just like that, I’m a murderer in an alleyway by the courthouse.
And still a target.
RYKER
Despite my background that is arguably anchored by violence, I don’t have experience with battlefields—not in regard to military combat, an inner-city war, or anything in between. That’s not my expertise.
And yet I feel it. That rumble from the bleat of pain, the shift in the air, the hysteria my girl is in.
I feelher.
My body moves before my mind has determined where I’m headed. Kane follows behind, his pounding steps battering in my wake. Out through the exit that seems to be where they store the trash, past a dumpster, and around a corner.
Kane contacts one of his guys, instructing them to keep this back area clear and to run interference so no one else follows up on that godawful shriek. Then he reports out to me with an update from them. Courthouse security has taken to gathering everyone on the grand front steps since the explosions occurred in the back.
The police sirens are closing in. The commotion is contained to a designated area.
And the alleys are empty.
Except for one.
As I pass a side street and round the corner, Mercy is sprinting toward me, barefoot, holding one of her shoes, hair wild and face marred with terror. A man chases after her. Without a thought in my head, I raise my pistol and lodge a bullet between his eyes.
