Enemies are just numbers.
I pull the knife that cut me and throw it across the kitchen at the latest gunman. The blade sinks straight into the asshole’s heart. He collapses, his blood leaking across the tile and staining the grout.
One by one, each man crumples.
I’m gaining the upper hand, which is nothing short of a miracle compared to how this fight—a near-perfect ambush—started.
A grunt of pained surprise lurches from my chest as Andrei Kruschev barrels right into me, knocking me clean into the nearest wall and forcing the air from my lungs with a hiss.
I drop to my knees from the impact, wheezing.
I better not get a concussion because of this awful asshole.
Standing feels impossible, my legs weakened from the hit and the fading adrenaline. Fuck.
When I glance around and realize Andrei and I are the only two left, my exhaustion makes perfect sense.
“I just took out all your reinforcements, andnowyou want to fight me?” I spit bloody saliva from the corner of my mouth. “Coward.”
“Only a man who could take them all out on his own would be worthy of fighting me in the first place.” Andrei offers me a cold, cruel smile. “Now, get up. When I drag that girl away, I want it to be because I killed you.”
With my eyes locked on his, I push to my feet. My muscles scream in protest, but I don’t let my shaky joints stop me. “Overmy dead body is theonlyway you’re walking out of here with what’s mine.”
Andrei retrieves an assault knife from his weapons belt.
A standard-issue military combat knife.
Guess I shouldn’t be surprised he’s ex-special forces, what with his reputation and all.
“One round.” Andrei crouches into a fighting stance. “Winner take all. Agreed?”
I draw a kitchen knife out of the wood block by the sink. It’s bigger, longer, and not designed for combat, but if he wants a knife fight, he’ll get a knife fight.
“Agreed.”
The cold clarity of battle floods my mind.
Focus. Watch. Win.
Easy as pie.
Andrei roars, charging with perfect form as he juts his arm at me, his blade singing through the air.
I spin out of his path while thrusting my kitchen knife down toward his shoulder.
He evades, so I swing again.
We trade blows, tiny spurts of blood flying as we attack each other like pitbulls in an underground dog-fighting ring.
We’re evenly matched in our skill and brutality.
After several minutes, I’m exhausted. His advantage isn’t my fatigue, though. It’s his lack of humanity.
He’s not afraid to be hurt or to die trying to accomplish his ends.
My dedication falls short of his.
That’s my weakness.
