Then I slam into Daniels with everything I have.
We go down hard. His back cracks against the tile floor. The gun spins loose. My hand closes around it before he can react.
I throw the gun across the room. It clatters against the far wall, disappears behind the couch.
A bullet is too good for him.
I stop thinking. Just become what I am.
The first hit lands on his already-broken nose. The cartilage gives further under my fist. Blood sprays across my knuckles. The second puts his head against the floor with a crack. The third, fourth, fifth—I lose count.
He's fighting back. Cop training. Combat instincts. He knows how to throw a punch, how to defend, how to create space. His fist catches my jaw, snaps my head to the side. His elbow drives into my ribs.
Then he finds the bullet hole.
His thumb digs in. Twists.
White-hot agony rips through my shoulder. My vision strobes. For one second I'm back in the camps, back in the pit, back in every fight I ever lost—
I grab his wrist and break it.
His scream snaps me present. He's still under me. Still breathing.
Not for long.
He put his hands on her throat.
I drive my fist into his solar plexus. The air explodes out of him.
She was screaming my name.
Another hit. Something cracks. Teeth scatter across the tile.
Screaming while he held her down. While he forced her finger on the trigger.
"Diesel, his ankle!"
Eden's voice breaks through. I see it: his good hand clawing toward his leg, toward the backup piece.
Too late.
The gun is in his hand.
The shot catches me in the side. Pointblank into the meat of my flank.
A branding iron shoved between my ribs.
I grunt. Keep hitting.
He fires again. The bullet goes wild—into the ceiling, plaster raining down.
I wrench the gun from his grip. Throw it across the room.
He rolls, tries to get out from under me. I let him—just far enough to get his arm extended. Then I grab his wrist. Twist.
The sound his elbow makes is wet. Splintering.
He screams.
