I vaulted off the crate, rolling as I landed. Bullets tore through the space where I'd been standing, splinters exploding from the wood. I came up in a crouch behind a metal support beam, breathing steady, heartbeat calm.
This was the part I was good at.
The part where everything else fell away and it was just me and the bow and the people who needed to die.
I counted their positions by sound. Footsteps to my left. Heavy breathing behind the crates to my right. Someone trying to flank me from the far side, boots scraping on concrete.
I pivoted, drew, and put an arrow through the flanker's knee. He screamed, high and sharp, dropping his weapon. I was already moving, closing the distance. Drew the knife from my shoulder holster and drove it up under his ribs. Felt it punch through muscle and cartilage, felt his breath leave him in a hot rush against my face.
Four.
His body hit the ground, and I was already spinning toward the next target. A man burst from behind the crates, knife in hand, face twisted with rage. He was fast. Trained. He slashed at my throat, and I barely got my arm up in time to block.
The blade scraped across the carbon fiber on my forearm, sparking. I slammed my forehead into his nose. Felt it crunch. He staggered back, and I drove my knee into his gut, then grabbed his knife hand and twisted. Bones snapped. He screamed.
I ripped the knife from his grip and buried it in his throat.
Five.
The others were regrouping. I could hear them shouting, coordinating. Three left, maybe four. I needed better positioning.
I grabbed the dead man's rifle and sprinted toward a stack of crates near the back wall, bullets chasing me. Wood exploded. Metal pinged. I dove behind cover and came up firing.
The rifle kicked against my shoulder, familiar and brutal. Three-round bursts. Center mass. One man dropped. Then another. The third took cover behind the truck.
I dropped the rifle and drew my bow again.
This was what I'd come for.
“Come out,” I called, voice echoing through the warehouse. “Make it easy.”
“Go to hell!” The voice came from behind the truck. Terrified. Young. Stupid.
“You first.”
I fired blind, arcing the arrow high. It came down at a steep angle, punching through the truck's roof and into the man hiding beneath. I heard him scream. Heard him thrashing.
Then silence.
One left.
I waited, bow drawn, scanning the shadows. The last man would either run or fight. Most ran. This one didn't.
He came at me from the side, pistol raised, finger already squeezing the trigger. I dropped and rolled as the shot went wide. Came up inside his guard. Grabbed his wrist and twisted, forcing the gun toward the ceiling. He fired again. Again. The slide locked back, empty.
I stared at him through the shadow of my hood.
“You have no idea who you're dealing with,” he spat. Blood on his teeth. Fear in his eyes.
“Neither do you.”
I swept his legs and slammed him into the concrete. Drove my knee into his chest, pinning him. Drew an arrow and pressed the obsidian tip against his throat, just hard enough to draw blood.
“Who's running the shipments?”
“I don't know.”
I pressed harder. “Wrong answer.”
