I cut left through the stones, eyes locked on the shape moving through the haze. Not many things could get a grown man screaming in a graveyard at this hour. I kept low, boots muffled by the wet turf, Glock held down andclose to my thigh. I moved like a shadow with a chip on its shoulder.
The second scream was closer. I caught sight of them through a row of cracked obelisks—a cluster of bodies hunched against the base of a mausoleum. Four men, all big in the beer gut, all in cheap denim and camouflage. They had a woman boxed in, her back to the marble, hair the color of dirty copper, and spitting curses through a busted lip. Her jacket was half ripped off one shoulder, and one of the fuckers was trying to finish the job.
I clocked the angles. Two were armed—one with a switchblade, the other with a piece of broken rebar. The third hung back, waiting for his turn. The fourth, the one with the big bald head, had both hands full of the woman’s hair. She twisted and bit, good for her, but the odds were shit.
I lined up a shot, not at the men, but the stone right behind them. The Glock coughed once, the slug chewing a shower of marble chips above the bald guy’s skull. Everybody hit pause.
Baldy spun, eyes wide and white in the morning light. The woman didn’t miss a beat—she stomped hard on his instep, twisted free, and dropped to a knee. Two of the bastards bolted without a word, ghosts before I could even raise the barrel again.
That left Baldy and Knife Guy. I closed the distance, fast and mean, voice low enough to rattle teeth.
“Party’s over. You wanna walk, now’s the time.”
Knife Guy chose poorly. He lunged, and I let him close. At the last second, I sidestepped, caught his wrist, and cranked it until I felt the pop of his ulna giving up. He dropped the blade and howled, collapsing to the mud. I put my boot on his hand and pressed, not gently.
Baldy tried for the woman again, but she had a handful of gravel and knew how to use it. She blinded him, then cracked his face with her knee. He went down, more surprised than hurt.
Knife Guy was still wailing, so I kicked the rebar away and leveled the Glock at Baldy’s groin.
“One more move and you piss out a colander,” I said.
He froze. Maybe he saw something in my eyes. Most people did.
I turned to the woman, keeping the Glock on the two dipshits. “You good?”
She nodded, eyes wide but steady. Blood ran from her mouth, but she didn’t cry or whimper. I liked her immediately.
I thumbed the safety back on and holstered. “Get behind me.”
She did, still clutching the torn pieces of her jacket. Her bare shoulder looked like it might start bleeding just from the cold, but she stayed upright.
“Pick up your friend,” I said to Baldy. “You’ve got five seconds before I start breaking more bones.”
He scrambled to get Knife Guy upright. The two of them staggered off, leaving a trail of curses and blood. I waited until they were out of sight, then took a breath.
Only then did I really look at the woman. She was tall for a girl, and even busted up she had that impossible poise, like a model who’d been through three wars and didn’t give a shit about the outcome. Her hands shook, but her stare could stop traffic. Her dark hair was a mess, but her brown eyes were wide and excited.
“Thanks,” she said, voice raw. “You always hang out in graveyards, or is it just my lucky day?”
“Little of both,” I said, and shrugged off my cut. “Here. You’re freezing.”
She stared at the jacket, then at me. “You’re… Bloody Scythes?” Her face fell blank.
I dropped to a crouch about six feet off, close enough to talk, far enough to not spook the wildlife. “You still with me?”
She flinched like I’d fired a gun. Her eyes, huge and hazel, raked over me and landed on my hands first—Glockstill in the holster, hands visible, palms out. I’d seen this before, the way a rabbit looks at a trap after it’s already lost a paw. She tried to compose her face, but her lower lip kept wanting to tremble.
“Thanks for the rescue.” Her voice was pure East Coast, a layer of private-school veneer over the terror. “I didn’t think— I mean, I didn’t expect—” She swallowed, started again. “That was… efficient.”
“I aim to please,” I said, and then realized she might pass out if I joked. “You want this jacket or not? Yours is pretty fucked.”
She clutched the torn lapel like it was a lifeline. “I don’t need your charity.”
“Alright.” I shrugged off the cut anyway and set it on the grass between us. Bloody Scythes patch glared up like a dare.
She eyed the jacket, then me. “You’re with them.” Her nose wrinkled—not with disgust, just calculation. “Of course.”
I didn’t bother confirming. Instead, I dug a cheap pack of tissues from my pocket and tossed them her way. “You’re bleeding. And it’s cold as shit.”
