Tall. Expensive suit. Soft hands. The kind of man who’s never thrown a punch and has ruined hundreds of lives with paperwork.
“Ms. Fierson,” he says warmly. “I’m so glad you agreed to?—”
Two men break off from the crowd behind her.
My implant spikes.
“Kim—” I start.
Hands grab her arms.
A hood snaps down over her head.
The shock baton cracks against her ribs with a sound like wet wood splitting.
The bond detonates inside my chest.
Not pain.
Impact.
A violent, hollow thud that knocks the breath out of my lungs and sends white static exploding across my vision.
“No,” I snarl.
I’m moving before my brain catches up.
People scream.
The crowd surges.
The syndicate rep vanishes backward into the human tide like he was never there.
Kimberly goes down fighting.
I see it in fragments.
Her elbow slamming into a man’s throat.
Her teeth sinking into someone’s hand hard enough to draw blood.
Her knee coming up viciously into a groin.
Too many bodies.
Too many hands.
They lift her off the floor like she weighs nothing.
I draw my weapon.
Security drones pivot.
Third-party guards shout.
“Drop it!” someone yells.
I fire anyway.
