It knocks the breath out of my lungs, and I stagger back a step, but that’s it, because I’m wearing a vest. Because, unlike these guys, I’m not a fucking moron.
You don’t bring knives to a gunfight without a little planning.
Plus—I grin—shooting a man and having him not react is kind of scary.
And right now, I want to be scary.
The man’s eyes widen, then drop to stare at the knife hilt sticking out between his third and fourth ribs.
His gun wavers and lowers, then he stumbles back a step, and I watch him concentrate on lifting it back up.
A body collides with my back, and arms circle my neck in a bruising squeeze.
Perfect.
I use the new man’s momentum to spin us, just in time for the stumbling guy to fire.
Two more shots echo inside the small room, and the body behind me jolts as he takes the friendly fire in his spine.
The man with the gun lets out an alarmed sound, and through the ringing in my ears, I can hear his gun clatter to the floor.
The arm around my neck is still squeezing, but not as hard. He’s not dead yet.
I spin the final knife that’s still in my hand so I’m gripping the handle instead of the tip of the blade, then swing my arm down and back, slicing through the man’s upper thigh and his femoral artery.
I withdraw the blade immediately, giving the vital blood coursing through the artery a path of escape.
The man’s arms fall away from my neck.
One dead.
One seconds from death.
One with a knife between the ribs.
One finally pulling the knife free from his arm.
Him first.
He tries to throw the blade at me, like I did to him. But he’s not me, so the flat edge of the knife thuds against my chest and falls to the floor.
If it wasn’t so fucking pathetic, I’d laugh.
“Really?” I ask, wanting more of a fight from these men. Needing it.
Without looking, I fling my final throwing knife down and back, hearing the meaty thud of it entering the body of the man who’s bleeding out on the floor.
The man before me pales, like the idea of me being weaponless is somehow more intimidating.
I hear a creak from the cot behind me, and I know Rib Guy is trying to get up. Probably hoping to use his last breath to kill me.
He can try.
I’d love to make this an actual fight.
I lunge forward and capture Arm Guy in a bear hug, barreling us both to the floor.
He’s big. As big as me. Maybe heavier.
My shoulder catches the corner of one of the cots, so I’m slightly off-balance when he swings a haymaker at my face.
I lean back, moving with it, but that off-balance bit has me leaning too far, and his fist slides across my throat.
The hit isn’t hard enough to kill me, but it’s enough to fucking hurt. And enough to seize up my throat muscles.
I punch the man once in the face, hard enough to stun him, then straddle his sprawled form.
My breath is still stuck in my lungs, but I know the air will come, so I don’t panic.
Instead, I grab the front of his shirt to lift him, then smash his head back against the concrete floor.
I can hear movement behind me. Can hear Rib Guy picking up his gun from the floor. Can hear his ragged breathing, his left lung probably fully collapsed now.
I slam Arm Guy’s head against the concrete again, and his eyes roll back.
Rib Guy is moving forward now. I can hear him getting closer.
He’s afraid to shoot from too far away.
Afraid to hit his friend again, like he did last time.
Pussy.
I lift Arm Guy a few inches off the ground. If his skull isn’t cracked, it’s going to be. But instead of rocking forward and slamming him down again, I let go of his shirt and drop my body backward.
A gunshot cracks through the room, the bullet flying over my laid-out form and sinking into the chest of Arm Guy.
Continuing my backward motion, I roll through a reverse somersault.
My booted feet connect with the floor at the same time my throat finally relaxes. I suck in a deep breath as I bolt upright.
Rib Guy is trying to track me with his gun, but he’s wavering, blood loss and lack of oxygen taking its toll.
In one move, I reach between us with my right hand and grip his gun from the top, my palm covering the hammer, preventing it from working. With my left hand, I grasp the handle of the knife still protruding from his chest, and just like a moment ago, I use my motion to my advantage. Letting my right hand lead, I spin, yanking the gun from his grip and pulling the knife from his ribs. My back is to him for a split second, but he’s not quick enough to do anything. Then I face him again, his pistol in my hand. My finger on the trigger.