And embeds itself in the wall three inches from his head.
“Fuck.” I dive for my gun.
He's on me before my fingers close around the grip. We go down in a tangle, his weight crushing, his hands going for my throat again. I buck, twist, get my knee between us and shove.He flies backward into the desk, scattering papers, a laptop crashing to the floor.
Footsteps. Pounding up the stairs.
“Ten seconds!” Punk sounds frantic.
I don't have ten seconds.
Jarvis charges. I sidestep, grab his arm, use his momentum to slam him face-first into the wall. Once. Twice. Blood smears the peeling paint. His knees buckle but he catches himself on a filing cabinet, spinning with something metallic in his hand.
Brass knuckles.
The first hit takes me across the cheekbone. My head snaps back, stars bursting across my vision. The second catches my shoulder, numbing my entire arm.
I drop low, sweep, and this time he doesn't get up fast enough. I'm on him, straddling his chest, raining down blows. Nose. Jaw. Throat. Each impact sends shockwaves up my arms, pain singing through my cracked ribs, but I don't stop.
Can't stop.
His hands come up, grabbing for my wrists, and we're grappling again, rolling across broken glass and spent shell casings. My back hits something sharp—the desk leg—and I gasp.
He uses the opening.
His fist connects with my ribs again. Same spot. The crack becomes a break and I scream, can't help it, white-hot agony stealing my breath.
“IVY!” Multiple voices now. Luce. Punk. Daniel.
But they're far away. Distant. All I can hear is my own pulse thundering in my ears, my own ragged breathing mixing with Jarvis.
And I remember the knife in my boot.
My hand moves on instinct. The blade slides free just as his fist comes down. I twist, and instead of my face, his knuckles smash into the floor. He roars, pulls back for another strike—
I bury the knife in his throat.
Blood sprays hot across my face, my chest. His eyes go wide, hands flying to his neck, trying to staunch the crimson fountain pulsing between his fingers.
He makes a sound. Wet. Gurgling.
I shove him off me, roll to my knees, ribs shrieking in protest. My hands are shaking. Everything's shaking.
The office door explodes open.
Three guards, weapons drawn, and I'm still on the floor, covered in blood, my Glock somewhere on the other side of the room—
“Northeast corner,” Luce snaps. “Gun. Three feet from your position.”
I lunge.
The first shot hits the doorframe by my head. Splinters spray. I grab the Glock, roll, come up firing.
One. Two. Three.
Each shot precise despite the trembling in my hands. Between the eyes, center of the throat, two in the chest and one in the head.
They drop.
