When the fuck did this happen?
My phone lights up on the passenger seat, and I glance at it. Three missed calls from River. Two from Briggs. And a string of missed texts I can’t read from here, but the most recent one from River is visible in the preview.
Come home. Now. It’s urgent.
I look at my hand, at the gashes in my knuckles, and the blood dripping down to my wrist. Then I clench my jaw, take my foot off the brake, and drive like it never even happened.
I stepinto the dark living room and my eyes immediately spot the two silhouettes waiting for me. River is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his jaw locked tight. Briggs is seated on the couch beside him, watching me with a wary expression.
“What’s going on?” I ask, eyeing the two of them.
River’s eyes drop to my hands for a beat, noticing the cuts there, then he wordlessly reaches for the remote.
The flat-screen flickers to life, and a video plays of what looks to be dash cam footage. It’s grainy and dark, but the timestamp in the corner of the screen is unmistakable.
August 15th.
The night I met Bambi.
Fuck.
My throat tightens, but I school my features and keep my mask of indifference firmly in place.
The footage continues to play, and at first, there’s nothing there. Just shadows and the faint glow of a streetlight bleeding into the frame.
Then she appears.
Bambi backs into the frame, moving cautiously, as if every step back towards the wall costs her something.
My jaw clenches.
Four figures emerge in front of her. Their faces are indistinguishable, but I know it’s the men I killed. I’d recognize their builds anywhere.
The biggest one goes after her first, backing her against the side of the building. He lunges for her, but just before he reaches her, she ducks. The movement is so fast I almost miss it. One second she’s cornered, the next she’s dropping low, out of view.
When she comes back up, there’s a knife in her hand. She swings it wildly, all desperation and adrenaline, and the blade catches the side of his face. Even through the grainy footage, I can see the spray of blood and the way he staggers back as his hands fly to his face.
The others freeze for half a second, shock rippling through them, then they attack. All of them. All at once.
The second man grabs for her. She twists out of his grip and slams her shoulder into his chest. He stumbles back, but it doesn’t seem to do much damage. The third one comes at her next. She swings the knife again, and he jerks back just in time, leaving the blade to slice through empty air.
“She fucking stabbed him!” He shouts, his voice crackling through the speakers, and I couldn’t be prouder.
Yeah, she fucking did.Bambi’s a fighter through and through.
The fourth man reaches for his waistband. For the gun tucked there. And my pulse spikes.
She sees it too. I watch her body tense, watch the split-second decision flash across her face. Then she runs at him. Straight at the man with the gun.
Jesus Christ. This is what was happening while I was unconscious.
She slashes wildly, going for anything she can reach. Messy. Uncoordinated. Completely chaotic.
He curses and slams his elbow into her back. She goes down hard and it takes everything I have not to look away.
The second her body hits the pavement, all four of them close in. Rough hands grabbing. Ripping. Yanking at her dress, her hair, anything they can reach.
Those motherfuckers. I’d give everything to raise them from the dead, just so I could kill them again, slower this time.
