I flinched as a crash echoed through the house, chased by a bang and muffled shouts. I gripped the knife and tiptoed to the top of the stairs. More cries rang out, some of them screaming questions at Lucas.
“What are you doing?”
A shout, and then another loud thump.
“Th’fuck, Scott!”
Grunts and the unmistakable thuds of fists against flesh emerged from the end of the hall. The picture of Lucas beingrestrained and beaten flashed through my mind, and I lost it. Slipping down the stairs, I snuck toward the fight.
Fabric ripped, then a clunk vibrated the floorboards.
I made it to the bottom of the stairs and glanced around the corner. One colonel sat slumped at the poker table, throat cut. Another two—Miller and Kingston—scrambled away from Lucas until the table stood between them. Lucas stared into the remaining one’s frightened eyes, screwing a knife into his stomach. The man whimpered, falling when Lucas yanked out the knife.
He landed on all fours, and Lucas kicked him hard in the face. Blood sprayed the ground as the thin bones of the man’s face crunched and gave way. He fell to his side.
One more kick, and he was gone.
Lucas headed for the other two. He whipped out a pair of karambits. Kingston took a defensive position. Miller had been messing with his shoe, but he straightened, and thrust his knife toward Lucas. Dodging, Lucas entered a deadly dance with his remaining foes.
30
Vigilante Justice
…survival is natural to everyone; being unexpectedly thrust into the life-or-death struggle of survival is not.
—U.S. ARMY FIELD MANUAL
Kingston leapt at Lucas with his Hunter knuckles, and the fight disappeared from view. I leaned through the door. Miller jerked his weaponed hand toward Lucas, his knife arcing wide.
Luke pushed them off, twisting to swipe his blade across Kingston’s wrist. Blood spewed from the wound, but he held on to his weapon, retreating.
I’d never seen him fight, and I could see why people feared him, why he was known as merciless and cold-blooded. Even outnumbered, Lucas was lethal. Kingston and Miller hesitated before each move, keeping too far for Lucas to do any real damage. He hurled one of the karambits at Kingston, who dove out of the way. Luke leapt at Miller.
His strikes were controlled, powerful.
Forward. Down. Retreat. Repeat.
No frills, no heroism. He fought to survive, and to survive meant to kill.
Miller’s practiced defense failed when Lucas drew blood from two swings to Miller’s chest. Kingston rejoined the fray. The three of them circled, searching for advantages. I remained quiet, hidden, until Miller landed his blade across Luke’s arm, and Kingston lashed at his chest.
Blood spilled, and all thoughts of staying away fled. I tripped into the room, clenching my knife. With a running start, I leapt onto Kingston’s back, sinking the point of my blade into the base of his throat.
Blood spurted over my hand. He choked, stumbling backward from the fight, and I dug the knife deeper, refusing to stop when I met resistance. He fell, taking me with him. I landed on my back. Silver sparks ruptured across my eyes with the lightning that struck my wounds. A moan wrenched from my throat.
Still, I yanked the knife from the dead man’s neck, and life-giving blood spilled from his body.
For Tekqua, I thought with vindictive satisfaction.
I shoved the body off me. Lucas lashed out at Miller, who defended himself with a quick raise of his arm. “What the fuck are you doing, Scott?”
Lucas advanced. I scrambled behind Lucas, my heart pounding.
Miller’s gaze bounced between us. “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Isthiswhy you were such an asshole today? Develop a savior complex?”
Lucas kept his blades out, hands steady.
Miller glanced at his dead friends and spat blood. “I’m assuming Blake’s dead?”
