Ivan turns his head—annoyed, dismissive. "Stay put, little?—"
She lunges. The packet tears open in her fist, and a cloud of black dust hits him full in the face.
Iron filings. Charcoal. Grit.
A sandstorm at point-blank range.
He roars. Both hands fly to his eyes—involuntary, unstoppable, the blinding reflex that even the best training can't override.
"Now!"
I move.
The last dregs of adrenaline come up from whatever reserve I've been running on for three days. I hit him waist-high, driving my shoulder into his gut. We go down hard, a tangle of limbs crashing into dirt and scrub.
The impact jars my wounded arm. White-hot agony tears through my system and nearly takes my vision. I scream—and turn the scream into effort. Knees into his thighs. Trying to mount him.
Ivan is strong. Blinded and furious, still a lethal machine. He bucks, throwing my balance. His hand lashes—the Karambit slices air.
The blade catches my thigh. Shallow. Burns like a brand.
I scramble back, boot connecting with his jaw. His head snaps, but he rolls with it, coming up to his knees. He's blinking hard, tears streaming, the grit clearing.
He can see. Enough.
He lunges.
I catch his wrist with my right hand, blocking the blade inches from my throat. We lock—his strength against my desperation, gravity on his side. The knife tip trembles and descends, inch by inch, toward my jugular.
His eyes are red and watery and full of cold, absolute hate.
"Die.” He grounds out the words.
My grip is slipping. Darkness closing at the edges.
BOOM.
Ivan stiffens. Profound shock crosses his face.
He's thrown off me—body jerking sideways as if yanked by an invisible cable.
I scramble back, gasping, clutching my arm.
Wren stands ten feet away, the Mossberg shouldered, smoke curling from the barrel. The recoil knocked her back a step. She's standing.
She didn't take the headshot. Didn't take the chest.
She took the leg.
At this range, the buckshot shredded his right calf. His leg is a ruin of meat and bone. Ivan is on the ground, screaming, clutching the wound, the Karambit forgotten in the dirt.
He tries to rise. The leg collapses. He goes down, writhing.
Wren pumps the slide.CLACK-CLACK.
She walks forward, barrel on his chest. Her face is pale, streaked with tears and dirt. Her eyes are dry.
She looks terrifying.
