“Personal space, man,” I goad as I drag the blade down some fucker’s windpipe, the arced splattering of blood nearly obscuring my vision before he drops. “No one likes a clinger.”
The Karambit is often underestimated. But it is superior to most knives in these types of situations—far better than my performative balisong. The curve mimics an animal claw, so in close combat like this, it can effortlessly shred people in seconds.
Still, it takes a village.
I pluck my spear-point knife from my belt and hurl it at a guy charging me before using the curved edge of the Karambit to disarm another pursuant of his weapon and cut his wrist in the process while shoving a third away with my foot.
The vehicle on fire explodes with a deep, resoundingwhooshandbang. Flames blow into the night air, and a puffy black haze eddies around the wreckage. The rumbling eruption and the need to take cover provide a momentary distraction. I ward off a few more strikes as we all migrate away from the blast, and I sprint my way over another truck to evade attacks, dismounting in a slightly less theatrical way. Still awe-inspiring though.
That lands me face-to-face with Pornstache, who makes a valiant effort to go for my cock. Not shocking. Thankfully, he swipes left of center. It stings like a bitch, even with the adrenaline thundering in my veins.
“Of course you’d go for the goods,” I heckle through a strained tenor, my fingers jamming into his eye sockets before I return the favor. Hooking just above his pelvis, I wrench downward to sever his shriveled dick to the tune of a sickening squawk.
“Fucking hell,” the psychotic hyena yowls as he lunges for me.
He gets in a decent stab on my side, but I swiftly lash his jugular vein, drenching us both in a crimson flood.
I’m nursing several lacerations. Most aren’t deep, but my blood is spilling from my back and abs and legs and arms. Other than the guy waiting in the truck, there are four men left. Theyaren’t looking so good, but they’ve collected a lot of my knives from the carnage of their friends.
Here’s a gruesome tidbit about knife fights: they usually end with everyone dead.
But unlike a shoot-out, if you’re nimble, you’ll go down swinging and die later from blood loss.
Later is the goal. She’s still running. So, even though my seconds are slaying seconds for the Grim Reaper, I still have a lot of fight left in me.
Of course, that thought hits me with the sight of both a pistol and oncoming headlights.
TESSA
Five feet away from my target.
The heat from the scorching flames of the exploding vehicle licks my skin. I roll for cover, stay tight to the ground, and reach inside my boot to rub my thumb over the balisong that Maddox handed to me. He didn’t bestow it as a fighting tool, but rather a keepsake—his treasured knife that reminds him of his mother and music.
He was saying goodbye. It pisses me off, but as I watch this massacre, it makes sense.
As soon as I finished texting the group chat, I gathered the weapons that Maddox had given me, arming myself with what I needed and stuffing the rest in various places—my crossbody purse, my boot, and my pocket.
It’s been less than five minutes, and he’s decimated most of the men, but I’m baffled that he’s still standing.
My balance is slightly off. I’m guessing I have a concussion. I briefly consider using the gun to end this quickly, but because no one is shooting, it will immediately draw attention, and I’m afraid Maddox will pay the price.
The passenger doors to the getaway truck are open, so I crawl into the back seat, avoiding a duffel bag that has partially fallen to the floorboard. I have to hold my breath. It reeks like stale cigarettes, body odor, and sycophancy.
“This motherfucker.” The guy chuckles on a call with someone. “He’s insane. Holding his own. And annihilating our guys.”
“Lund was fucking useless,” the deep voice on the other end returns. “Let Noire take down the rest. Then bring him to me. And find the girl.”
I hover behind the seat, able to see Maddox flipping off a truck in some sort of backward spin move. How the hell did he manage that? Maybe he isn’t very injured. That spark of hope fuels me to hurry.
I’ll get this one, Drac, since you’re handling the other dozen-plus.
“She can’t be far,” the getaway minion muses. “There’s nowhere to go. Still want them alive?”
“Shoot him if you have to,” the monster answers, “but don’t kill him. Or her. Hosting a Noire is special. I’m sending for Lund’s grandson too. We’ll make it memorable.”
“Royal treatment. I’m on it.” He finishes the call, his attention darting back to the battleground as grunts and bleats blare out into the night, harmonizing with the crackling sound of the automobile inferno.
Gripping my Karambit, I rise, hook it on the far side of his neck, and swipe the blade across his throat.
