Page 12 of Bad Blood Alpha

Chapter 5

Flynn ripped open the thigh pocket on his cargo pants and drew the pistol strapped to his leg.

His first shot connected with the lead hellhound—but it barely even slowed him down. He headed straight for Kira.

With a wicked snarl, the second one leaped at Flynn, making him stagger back into the table. The tray of medical instruments hit the floor with a crash.

At least there were only two of them this time. Man-shaped, but they moved like animals and had those freakish glowing orange eyes.

Flynn knocked the thing’s legs out from under it with a sweep of his leg. It crashed to the floor, but it reached up and managed to grab Flynn’s arm, twisting it.

His bad arm. Flynn let out an outraged roar of pain and rolled into the twist, taking the pressure off his shoulder. He flicked one of his knives out of the top of his boot and slashed at the intruder.

It was wearing leather, like Kira, even though it was hot as fuck out. For all its bulk, it was quick and agile.

Kira. Where was Kira?

Her hellhound was almost identical—bulky and buzz cut and growling, dressed in leather and fighting like a biker on crack.

She dodged a swipe from its wicked claws, and Flynn’s stomach clenched. He just missed being gutted by his opponent.

Pay attention. You can’t do her any good if you’re dead.

Not that she needed him. She was holding her own, a knife in each hand. Her fluid, agile fighting style hit him with a lurch. Where the fuck had she learned…

Flynn dodged another swipe of the claws, then ducked under his opponent’s arm, dropped his shoulder and rolled. He twisted and cut at the back of the hellhound’s thigh, trying to hamstring it, but its leather pants were embedded with thin metal plates.

Shit. This was armor, dressed up as slightly eccentric clubwear.

And he had on nothing but his cargo pants and boots and tats.

The opponent knocked the knife out of his hand, lunging at him. Flynn danced aside, always moving, glimpsing the other fight out of the corner of his eye.

This was bad. It wasn’t going to end until somebody was dead. Even if it wasn’t him and Kira, bodies brought trouble—human police, human investigations. That meant hospitals, and reports about his gunshot wound. They all had illegal weapons on them, and being incarcerated was not good for shifters.

Especially not for Flynn. They had to finish this, and get the fuck out of here.

Flynn sneaked another glance at Kira. She wasn’t losing, but she sure as hell wasn’t winning. Flynn had to do something.

He maneuvered himself around until he was in front of the window that led to the fire escape. Then he deliberately left the hellhound an opening, daring it to charge.

The creature fell for it, launching itself toward him.

Flynn didn’t resist. He crashed through the window, shattering glass and frame, his back stinging with dozens of small cuts. He tumbled back, out onto the rusty fire escape.

As he went, he grappled his opponent and dragged him along. As the hellhound came through the window, Flynn gave him an extra boost with his feet, flipping him over the railing toward the three-story drop below.

But he couldn’t disengage. The fucker clamped onto him like a leech, locking his hands on Flynn’s wrists, struggling to pull himself back over the railing of the fire escape.

Flynn tried to shove him off, and the entire railing cracked under their combined weight and broke away from the platform in a shower of rust.

Flynn was tumbling through the air, heading for the concrete thirty feet below.

This was gonna hurt.

His hands were still locked with his opponent’s. For a brief minute, every detail was so clear—the creature’s demonic orange-red eyes and the way its lip lifted in a snarl, showing extra-sharp canines.

At the last minute, Flynn twisted and flipped. His opponent hit the ground feet first, but was knocked back by Flynn’s weight landing on him.