Wyatt dove for his weapon. A second man charged.
Wyatt skidded to his knees, fingers closing around the gun as he pivoted to bring it up.
The second attacker, leaner, lunged at the same instant. His boot slammed down mid-draw, crushing Wyatt’s right handagainst the floor. Bone cracked. Pain detonated—his shooting hand gone.
Wyatt twisted, lunged for the knife in his boot with his good hand and stabbed the man’s calf.
The leaner man yelled, jerking away from him, blood spurting from the cut in the fabric. Wyatt rolled, pushed to his feet, broken hand clutched to his chest.
The man spun, his face warped, lips pulled back from his teeth. His gun hand came up.
Wyatt grabbed a bottle of olive oil with his left hand and lobbed it hard.
The bottle shattered against the man’s face, glass and oil exploding outward. He screamed, hands flying to his eyes as blood ran through the slick.
Wyatt closed the distance and tackled him. They hit the floor hard.
He took the man’s back in one violent shift, latching his right arm under his chin, forearm slick with blood. Then locked his legs around the man’s hips and pulled.
His broken hand failed when he tried to cinch the hold tighter. Fingers wouldn’t close, bones grinding where they shouldn’t.
The man bucked and clawed at him, breath coming in a choking wheeze. Wyatt tightened anyway and counted.
Five.
Six.
Pain flared white. He breathed through it.
Seven.
The hands scrabbling at his arm weakened.
Fell.
Wyatt released him and shoved the body away. He didn’t look at the damage. He didn’t have time. Neither of them was Akilov.
He pushed up to one knee.
Movement.
He caught it in the dark reflection of the microwave door.
A shape in the hallway. Moving away. Deeper into the house.
Already past him.
A door slammed. Upstairs.
Where he’d left her.
His broken hand was a white-hot wire running from knuckle to wrist. He tucked it to his chest, forcing his fingers to flex.
They moved. Not well or without cost. But they moved.
He retrieved the Glock from the floor, switching his grip. Left hand primary now. Broken right braced beneath the trigger guard. The hold was ugly but functional. He’d trained for worse. He’d fought through worse.
Two men down. Neither was Akilov.
