Men dove for cover.
Becca slid into the snow beside Inez behind the wrecked vehicle, firing until her arm burned.
She hit one in the shoulder.
Another in the thigh.
They weren’t expecting her to fight.
Izzy shouted, “Snatch them!”
Two men and a woman charged forward.
“Run!” Becca yelled at Inez.
“I’m not leaving you!” Inez screamed back, clutching her ribs.
Becca fired again.
Click.
Empty.
“Shit.”
She tossed the gun aside.
One of the menlunged.
That’s when they learned something nobody knew.
Becca didn’t just survive her past.
She trained because of it.
After the Bronx.
After the assault.
She learned to fight.
Hard.
The first man grabbed for her arm—
She pivoted, elbowed his throat, twisted his wrist, dislocated it with a sick snap.
He screamed.
The woman came next — fast, trained.
Becca ducked, drove her knee upward into the woman’s ribs, followed with a brutal palm strike to the jaw.
The second man tackled her.
They hit the snow hard.
He swung.
