It spun end over end, catching the light like a grotesque coin toss, before clattering across the sidewalk and skidding to rest near the curb.
The sound was loud in my ears—too loud—metal on concrete, the sound of a future almost ending.
The man snarled, rage replacing surprise. He lunged at me with both fists, abandoning the gun for brute force.
I ducked the first swing, feeling the wind of it rush over my scalp. The second clipped me anyway—knuckles grazing my cheekbone with enough force to make stars burst behind my eyes. Hot pain flared instantly. Something split.
Blood flooded my mouth.
I tasted copper, salt, and fury. My lower lip throbbed, swelling fast, but I didn’t stop moving. I couldn’t. Stopping meant dying.
He broke away suddenly, eyes darting toward the fallen pistol.
No.
He scrambled for it on hands and knees, fingers stretching desperately for the grip. I chased him down, boots slipping on grit, lungs burning. I closed the gap just as his fingertips brushed the polymer frame.
I wrapped my arm around his throat from behind and locked it in.
Perfect placement. Bicep tight under his chin, forearm crushing the carotid artery, my other hand reinforcing the hold. A rear naked choke—clean, efficient, merciless. I dropped my weight, legs braced wide, hips back, anchoring us both to the ground.
He thrashed.
Elbows drove backward, slamming into my ribs. Once. Twice. White-hot pain shot through my side, but I absorbed it,teeth clenched, tightening the choke instead of loosening it. His boots scraped wildly against the pavement as he tried to stand, to buck me off.
He clawed at my forearm, nails raking skin, drawing thin lines of blood. His breath came in wet, panicked gasps. His face flushed an ugly red, veins bulging at his temples.
Then purple.
Desperation set in.
He tapped frantically against my wrist—once, twice, again and again—his signal of surrender. His body language screamed it. I felt it through him.
I didn’t let go.
This wasn’t a gym. This wasn’t a match with rules and referees and mercy built in. This was a street, and there was still a gun within arm’s reach. One mistake—one second of compassion—and he’d kill me. Or hunt the boy down later. Or both.
I squeezed harder.
His movements slowed. The strength drained out of him in waves. His tapping weakened, turned erratic, then stopped altogether. His body sagged heavily against mine.
I held the choke another five seconds.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Only then did I ease him down, carefully, lowering him to the concrete like a sack of dead weight. I rolled him onto his side, checking—automatic, ingrained—no response, no resistance. Unconscious. Fully out.
My chest heaved as I pushed myself upright. Every breath scraped my ribs like broken glass. My knees trembled. Blooddripped from my lip onto the front of my ruined dress, dark spots blooming against the torn white fabric.
I turned.
