She swung it in both hands, a desperate arc.The base caught his forearm, hard.The gun jerked.The shot went off deafeningly sideways, shattering the TV screen in a spray of glass and fizzing sparks.
Marsh cursed, staggered.The gun clattered across the carpet, spinning once before coming to rest near the foot of the bed.
They moved at the same time.
Kate threw herself forward, feet tangling in the sheets.The big man lunged, catching her around the waist, hauling her bodily off the mattress.They crashed into the nightstand, a Bible shooting out from the drawer, the Coke toppling, dark liquid spraying over the wall.
Her shoulder hit the edge of the bedframe, pain flaring white.
She twisted, driving her elbow backward into his ribs.He grunted, grip loosening.She ducked, dropping her weight, trying to slip free as he grabbed for her hair.
They went down together in a tangle of limbs.
The gun lay three feet away, black and dumb and suddenly more dangerous than anything.
Marsh saw it.So did she.
They scrambled, hands clawing at carpet.He was faster, heavier, his fingers brushing the grip—
Kate snatched the motel Bible from the floor—this awful room and its clichés—and hurled it at his face.It struck his nose with a dull thud.He yelped, hand flying to his eyes.
She kicked the gun, hard.
It skittered under the cheap dresser, bumping against the plywood back with a hollow thunk.
“Bitch,” he snarled, launching himself at her.
He grabbed a fistful of her T-shirt, dragging her toward him.She drove her knee up between his legs.He twisted at the last second, taking the impact on his thigh.It was enough to stagger him, but not stop him.
They slammed into the chair, which toppled, its wooden legs cracking.
He snatched up one of the broken legs, swinging it like a club.She raised her forearms, taking the blow, pain detonating along her bones.
“Stop,” she gasped.“Quinn—”
“You think you can judge me?”he panted.“You?Little Miss FBI, child of a murderer?”
He swung again.She ducked.The chair leg smashed into the bedside lamp, killing what was left of the light.The room plunged into shadow, lit only by the dying flicker from the ruined TV.
In the sudden semi-darkness, shapes turned treacherous.
They grappled blindly.She felt his hand claw at her throat, nails digging.She twisted, managed to get behind him, one arm looping around his neck.Muscle memory kicked in.She locked her forearm under his chin, braced her other hand behind his head, and squeezed.
A chokehold.
His body bucked, strong, panicked, trying to throw her off.He staggered backward, slamming her into the wall.Plaster cracked.Stars burst behind her eyes.
She held on.
“Let—go—” he gasped, voice ragged.
He flailed for the dresser, sweeping objects off it, his hand searching desperately underneath for the gun.His fingers grazed something metal.Her stomach lurched.
She tightened the hold.
His hands clawed at her arm now instead of the floor, trying to pry her off.His breath rasped, harsh, wet.His movements grew jerky.
“Quinn,” she hissed in his ear.“Stop.It doesn’t have to end like this.”
