And I was losing.
He got me in a headlock. Squeezed. Black spots bloomed across my vision. Oxygen became a memory.
My hand scrabbled at my belt. Found a throwing knife. Drove it backward into his thigh.
He screamed. Released me. Staggered back.
I gasped. Air like knives in my throat. Vision swimming.
Viktor was there suddenly. Moving like death itself. His knife opened the mercenary's throat before the man could recover. Blood sprayed. The body dropped.
“You okay?” Viktor pulled me up.
“Peachy,” I wheezed. “Love getting my ass kicked.”
“Not your ass. Your everything.” He shoved a pistol into my hand. “Conserve arrows. You're down to eight.”
Shit. I'd lost count.
More mercenaries flooded in from the east corridor. Six. No, seven. Tactical formation. Suppressing fire. Moving like they'd trained together for years.
Dom's rifle barked. Took down the point man. The rest scattered, finding cover, returning fire with disciplined three-round bursts.
These weren't hired guns. These were operators. Special forces quality.
Marcel hadn't just bought an army. He'd bought the best.
“Grenade!” Viktor's shout cut through the chaos.
I saw it. Small metal sphere arcing through the air in a perfect parabola. Headed straight for us.
No time to run. No time to think.
Viktor grabbed me. Yanked me behind a marble column. Covered me with his body. All weight and muscle and protective instinct.
The explosion ripped through the ballroom. Shockwave hitting like the hand of an angry god. Heat washing over us in a wave. My skin felt flash-fried. Debris everywhere. Chunks of marble, shattered wood, burning curtains.
My ears rang. Couldn't hear anything except high-pitched whining that drowned out everything else.
Viktor's mouth moved. Saying something. I couldn't hear it. Read his lips: “MOVE!”
He pulled me up. Kept moving. No time to recover. No time to assess damage. Forward or die. Those were the options.
My legs felt like rubber. Head spinning. But I ran anyway.
More mercenaries pouring in from side doors. From balconies. From passages I hadn't even known existed. Where the hell were they all coming from? How many had Marcel hired?
I switched to the pistol Viktor had given me. My bow was running dry and these ranges were too close anyway.
Aimed. Fired. Mercenary went down clutching his shoulder.
Aimed. Fired. Another dropped.
Viktor was a blur beside me. Gun in one hand. Knife in the other. Moving through enemies like water through stone. Every movement precise. Economical. Lethal.
A mercenary came at him with a baton. Viktor disarmed him in two moves. Broke his arm. Used the man's own momentum to throw him into his buddy. Both went down in a tangle.
I'd never seen anything more beautiful or terrifying.
