He’s on his feet instantly, hopping to the desk in the room, rifling through drawers until he finds a pair of old scissors. He slices through the ties around his ankles. Once free, he comes over and frees me.
The second I’m loose, blood rushes back into my hands with a painful sting. I grunt and rub at the circulation returning as I get to my feet. We’re moving to the door.
Kane crouches and pats Corn Dog. “No, buddy. You stay here. We’ll be right back.” He nudges the door closed behind the reindeer.
We don’t wait. We’re already moving, fast and silent, slipping out of the room like shadows hunting something that never should’ve touched what’s ours. Every step is loaded with murder.
The hallway opens into the living room, dim and stale, and that’s when Kane taps my arm and points.
Our weapons, dumped stupidly on a side table by the couch.
Phones. Blades. Tasers.
Like Christmas morning for pissed-off bounty hunters. Fucking idiots.
We grab everything. Kane checks the charge on his Taser like he’s itching to use it. We crouch low and slip toward the front door, keeping to the shadows.
Through the partially open doorway, we spot Scot on the front porch, staring after a black van pulling down the snow-covered dirt road. Two guards stand in the yard, backs fully turned, relaxed, unaware that we’re right behind them.
Perfect.
I lift my hand, fingers counting silently—three… two…
On “one,” Kane moves first.
Fast. Deadly. Beautiful.
We step outside from behind the doorframe, blades flicking through the air in matching arcs.
Thunk.
We bury both blades cleanly in the guards’ backs, angled to drop them fast. The men jerk forward with startled cries before collapsing face-first into the snow, twitching and gasping. They’re down, not dead—but very much done.
Scot hears the sound and whips around, already reaching into his coat. I see the outline of a gun, see his hand curling around it, starting to pull it free?—
I fire the Taser.
The prongs hit dead center, right in the groin.
The effect is instant and goddamn glorious.
Scot’s eyes go huge, bulging in disbelief before the electricity tears through him. His knees buckle, his spine bows, and he lets out a strangled, high-pitched sound that is somewhere between a dying ostrich and a man being force-fed regret.
The gun slips out of his hand. Clatters on the wooden boards.
His whole body seizes, jerking violently as he falls flat on his back, twitching hard enough that snow stirs around him.
Kane bursts out laughing. I might be laughing too. Hard to tell over the screaming.
When the current stops, Scot just lies there, whimpering in a pathetic puddle of sweat and pain. We don’t have time to savor it.
“We’re running out of minutes,” Kane mutters, scanning the tree line. “We need Corn Dog back at the town square now.”
“Yeah.” I grab Scot by the collar and drag him across the porch like trash. “But this asshole isn’t going anywhere.”
We haul him into the yard toward the pine tree near the house. He tries to scramble, kicking weakly.
“You can’t—fuck—you can’t do this,” he wheezes.
