But they weren’t close enough to do jack shit when the door burst open and men spilled out.
Two went right for Dylan.
I went for them.
Her cry of pain made my vision go red as I grabbed one of the fucks by his thin-ass ponytail, pulling so hard I was surprised the damn thing didn’t rip clear out by the roots.
He yowled in pain, swung at the air, but I got him away from Dylan.
One hard uppercut had him sprawled out, letting me reach for the next guy, who was trading blows with a fiery-eyed, bloody-lipped Dylan.
That blood?
That was what signed the motherfucker’s death certificate for him.
He’d made her bleed.
He had to pay.
My knife was in my hand before I was even conscious of my brain saying to reach for it.
It was a nasty thing.
Not a flimsy little folding pocketknife.
It lived in a slot in my boot.
A ten-inch, serrated tactical knife.
Almost identical to the one I’d carried in the service.
The grooves of the handle felt familiar in my hand.
The practiced hold came back to me with ease.
As did the way I closed in on the bastard, yanked his head to the side to expose his neck, and rammed the knife into his carotid.
Blood poured.
Over at me.
All over the stunned Dylan.
But I only noticed that for a second or two.
Because something wide and hard closed around my throat from behind, pulling back hard, and immediately cutting off my airflow.
My hands went for it automatically, before my training even kicked in.
The knife fell from my hand down near Dylan’s side as she started to scramble up, her eyes huge.
My blood was rushing too hard in my ears to hear her yell, but I saw the way her lips formed my name.
Colter!
The horrified look in her eyes was oddly comforting even as my head started to feel light.
There was only one member of Roach’s club large enough to drag me backward.
