Turning on my knee, I rise to sprint back down the hallway and freeze as heat spreads out from my abdomen at a sudden punch from the other man I thought was down and out in the hallway.
No… That’s not a punch.
I glance down.
The knife I embedded in his thigh now protrudes from my abdomen, the hilt firmly in his grip.
He rasps in my face, spraying speckles of blood with the cigarette stank from his breath.
Ow.
My stomach rolls. In a flash, I’ve ripped the knife out of myself and plunged it into the juncture of his shoulder and neck.
His eyes widen in surprise, and his mouth opens, but all that spills out is a dark crimson waterfall.
“Fucker,” I growl as my old captain’s voice echoes in my head at my stupidity.
Shouldn’t have pulled that knife out.
Fuck.
He crumples and I take one step over his body. But before I can do anything else, a heavyweight tackles me from behind and attaches to my shoulders like a backpack.
A fourth man.
I lift my hand in time to catch the thin, sharp wire this fourth assassin tries to wind around my throat.
Hot agony rears up in my forearm as the sharp wire cuts into my flesh, forcing me to draw my own forearm against my throat to protect it.
I stumble back, then I throw myself back.
My attacker and I crash into the wall, and the hallway floods with light as he knocks the light switch.
Away from the wall I drag us both, turn, then slam him into the next wall. Deeper and deeper the wire cuts into my arm as the assassin frantically winds it around me again and pulls it so tight.
My arm might as well be on fire.
Think, Falco. Think!
Keeping him away from Aerin is my only goal so despite the pain, I surge toward the living room and break into a run toward the couch.
The stranger yells and I mirror him as I charge forward, slamming myself into the back of the couch at full speed.
The jolt of stopping is enough to dislodge the assassin from my shoulders, and they fly over the top of my head, wire and all, and land on the coffee table that immediately crumbles under their weight.
I sag to my knees, gasping raggedly through the white-hot pain spearing through my abdomen.
The stab wound, previously weeping sluggishly, is now pouring with blood that soaks into my jeans.
Blood streams in a river down my arm from more slices than I can count.
Gun. Need my gun.
Aerin called me paranoid. I call it prepared.
The assassin picks himself up from the remains of the table and laughs, pulling the razor-wire taut between his hands and grinning at me through a balaclava that’s barely covering his face.
“They told me you’d be difficult,” the man rasps. “But when I hear difficult, I hearfun.”
