Time didn’t slow—that was a myth. But Zach’s perception expanded, his mind processing information at the accelerated rate combat demanded. Threat analysis occurred in layers, each one complete before the next began. All completed in a fraction of a second.
He spun, leading with his eyes. Tracked the movement through the air by instinct and training. Saw the bolt in flight,fifteen feet out, angled downward from an elevated position in the trees. Trajectory calculated: chest-height impact point.
On Emma.
His body moved before conscious thought formed. Weight shifted left in front of her, right hand snapping up with fingers spread, left hand reaching to push her clear.
The bolt slammed into his palm, blazing a trail across his skin.
The impact drove his arm back, a shock wave he felt in his shoulder. The shaft vibrated violently in his grip, the metal tip an inch from his chest, the fletching still quivering from the sudden stop. The force reverberated through muscle and bone—not superhuman, just faster than anyone should be. Faster than most people tracked.
His hand burned from the shaft. He’d feel that tomorrow.
If they lived that long.
“Behind me. Now.” He shoved Emma back with his left hand, already moving forward, the bolt still clutched in his right. His mind cataloged the weapon—sixteen-inch bolt, broadhead tip, professional-grade. Not a hunting accident. Not a warning shot.
A kill shot. Aimed at Emma.
“Zach, what?—”
“Run!” He dropped the bolt, his hand landing on the knife at his hip.
No time. The attacker emerged from the tree line ten yards away, racing down from an elevated position in a coral rock outcrop he had noted earlier as a potential threat point. He should have checked it. Should have swept it before they passed.
The figure wore black tactical gear—professional quality, not costume store garbage. Face masked with a balaclava. Reloading the crossbow, hands operating with trained efficiency.
Amateur tactical move, though. You didn’t reload in the open. You displaced and reloaded from cover.
Either the shooter was overconfident, or he had backup Zach hadn’t spotted yet.
He closed the distance in four strides, eating up the ground between them. His survival knife cleared its sheath with a familiar whisper of steel on leather. Eight-inch blade, full tang, perfectly balanced. An extension of his hand.
The assassin saw him coming and made the right choice—abandoned the crossbow, letting it fall as he reached for something at his belt. A knife. Seven-inch blade, tactical grip, serrated edge near the hilt.
Good. Zach preferred knives. They were honest weapons. No distance, no hiding. Just skill and will.
The attacker struck first—aggressive, trying to use momentum and surprise. The blade came high, aiming for Zach’s throat in a classic slash designed to make him retreat.
Zach didn’t retreat.
He deflected the strike with his own blade, the ring of metal on metal sharp and clear in the salt air. The impact sent vibrations down both weapons. The assassin was strong, but strength wasn’t enough.
Zach rotated inside the man’s guard while the blades were still connected and drove his elbow into the attacker’s ribs with the full force of his rotating body weight behind it.
Something gave, and he heard the satisfying crack of at least one rib breaking.
The assassin stumbled back three steps, his breathing short and pained. He recovered fast, resetting his stance despite the injury, knife hand steady.
Trained. Military.
They circled each other, feet sliding across sand and sparse beach grass. Zach’s mind worked through the problem: how to handle this guy without showcasing too much of his ownabilities. The attacker favored his right side—dominant hand. The rib hit hadn’t slowed his strikes.
Time was on Zach’s side, but Emma was still exposed behind him, her fear a bitter taste in the back of his mouth.
The attacker feinted left, a shoulder dip that telegraphed the move half a second too early. Then came right, blade down, aiming for Zach’s kidney.
Zach blocked with his forearm, his own blade opening a line across the man’s forearm above the glove. The tactical fabric split. White skin. Blood welled—bright red, arterial.
