Page 154 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

He smiles. ‘Try harder.’

Riley has no weapons, no knives, no guns, not even boots.

For the first time in his life, he realises something important.

He is a weapon.

He always has been.

Riley’s approach panics the two new men, who open fire on him, but he moves faster than he ever has before, avoiding each bullet fired at him. His inner ears curl protectively against the bangs. His muscles make easy work of moving so fast, his balance prevents him from so much as slightly stumbling even when he steps on something painful. The night air is thick with their fear, radiating like summer heat.

It takes less than three seconds to reach Artem.

Riley grabs his gun and yanks it away, takes it for himself.

He turns it around.

Aims.

Fires.

Bang bang.

The man falls down. Riley laughs.

He laughs because it was so fucking easy.

Has it been this easy all along? Probably.

Riley does the same to the other, but this time he doesn’t stop until the gun clicks, no more bullets. He drops the gun, curious about what other damage he can do without it. He kneels beside the body on the ground, full of holes, and touches the chest. His muscles are coiled, just begging for an excuse to unleash, lash out, go fucking wild. If he wanted to, he could put his fist through ribs, reach the heart, he’s sure of it, he’s so—

Three more sharp darts sink into his skin.

Zachary is trying to make him sleep.

The wild thing dissolves the chemical, but it drains Riley’s clarity to do so. His bones give a sharp jolt of pain and his lungs contract.

He rises and turns, head cocked.

Zachary looks afraid, smells terrified, feels… weak.

He is weak, Riley realises.

He always has been.

‘Please, kid,’ he utters.

‘No more talking,’ Riley says, snatching the gun from his grip so hard it rips his trigger finger off at the knuckle. The sour scent of blood bursts like a wet bomb, flooding Riley’s senses and building a sense of victory more satisfying than bang bang.

He grabs Zachary by the throat before he falls, testing his grip, finds the throat to be a squishy, vulnerable thing.

Riley cocks his head, painfully curious.

His body is making all the decisions.

What would happen if he just… squeezed?

‘Pl-please!’ Zachary begs, spluttering, kicking, scratching at Riley’s arm, which doesn’t look how it usually does. ‘I’ll do any-anything! Name it!’