A quick, sharp jab crushes his windpipe.
He drops to his knees, clawing at his neck and choking for air.
I know I hit hard enough to kill him. He won’t be getting back up.
I pivot toward the larger man with tattoos on his knuckles.
This one’s clearly smarter considering he hung back and drew his gun. I duck as he fires, the shot cracking through the night air.
This needs to end quickly before we draw attention.
I peer behind me. Jordan huddles against the side of the car, covering her head with her arms. At least she’s staying a small target.
She didn’t fucking listen, though.
Stubborn. She might be a problem after all, but not one I can deal with at the moment.
From my crouch, I lunge forward, ramming my shoulder into Knuckle Tattoo’s midsection.
The impact punches the air from his lungs. We hit the pavement together, his head cracking against concrete.
The gun skitters across asphalt, forgotten.
I drive my elbow into his face. As cartilage gives way under the blow, warm blood sprays against my skin, the scent of iron heavy.
He groans and lies still, his limbs twitching.
Two down.
And I’m not even breathing hard.
From somewhere behind me, Jordan gasps. I whip around to check—I can’t let my mark get hurt already—but she’s fine. She points over my shoulder, her wide eyes shining in the streetlight’s glow.
The third man circles to my left, cautious now that he’s seen his friends go down. He’s older and more experienced.
Dangerous.
He aims his gun at my chest with steady hands. “Easy now. Just step away from him, nice and slow.”
Not good. I’m exposed. No cover. No clear path to disarm him before he fires.
But I’ve endured worse situations.
I get to my feet, holding Knuckle Tattoos in front of me.
Before I can attack, headlights sweep the street as a van rounds the corner.
Reinforcements.Damn.
The odds just deteriorated from bad to shitty.
The van screeches to a halt thirty feet away, and the side door slides open. Two more men jump out, moving with professional efficiency.
Time to go.
Fighting four armed men in the open is suicide.
“Fuck.” I retreat toward my car where Jordan remains frozen, her eyes wide with terror. Knuckle Tattoos, still too dazed to defend himself, stumbles along with me.
