My hand closes around hers, jamming her finger into the trigger. This is why you’re supposed to keep your finger along the barrel until you fire. It prevents misfires like this.
The gun goes off—once, twice, three times. The rounds kick up gravel and dust and everything is a jumble of movement. Luckily, there is a suppressor attached to the barrel to muffle the shots. Otherwise I might have just lost an eardrum.
Anasova’s elbow jabs into my ribs. She’s stronger than I am, but I’m desperate. Adrenaline sets fire to my muscles. I snarl soundlessly at her, slamming her hand into the roof again and again. Her finger hits the trigger. Another misfire. That’s eight shots.
Her 9mm Glock should have ten.
Only two left.
But two is plenty enough to kill a person.
She rears back, her skull cracking into mine. I flinch just in time to save myself from a concussion… but not a broken nose.
I feel the sickening crunch. The pain will come later, but for now, adrenaline and endorphins keep the agony at bay.
Anasova shoves me off her, jerking the gun around. The barrel is a black hole—all-encompassing, growing larger with every fraction of a second. I frantically kick at her. It’s clumsy, but my foot slams into her elbow.
It bends. And not the way an elbow is supposed to bend.
Her scream rips through the air.
The gun falls from her hand, skitters across the roof. I lunge for it, fingers closing around the grip, and then I scramble backward. Anasova crouches a few strides away. She cradles her broken arm, her face blanched with pain.
We’re both injured, but the difference between us is that I know what true agony feels like. I can block out a broken nose, no problem.
Anasova curses as she tries to crawl out from under the panels with her one good arm. I can’t let her escape.
I aim the gun at her. “Don’t move,” I say. The words come out a little wet and mangled.
Anasova freezes. Her gaze flicks from the weapon to my face. She’s weighing me, gauging my reactions. She doesn’t know if I’ll shoot.
I swallow a mouthful of coppery saliva. I desperately wish Prefect was here; he has the kind of quiet authority that can bend a person to his will. Me? I mostly annoy people into submission.
“You’re not going to kill me,” says Anasova. Her gaze is on mine, and she seems utterly certain of herself again.
I’ve been measured and found wanting, it seems.
“I am not going to kill you intentionally,” I agree. “But considering what a bad shot I am, I could try to take out one of your knees and hit your kidney.” I swallow another mouthful of blood. It’s disgusting and I choke back the urge to vomit. That won’t be intimidating. “Now, you’re going to do exactly as I say.”
“Am I?” she asks.
I nod. “You are. Because it’ll be pretty hard to earn a living as a hired gun if you’re stuck in a hospital with bullet wounds. And I bet your health insurance is pretty bad.”
She bares her teeth. “Either kill me or shut up.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “Now, those zip ties? Time to put them to use.” I hesitate, then dig into the pocket where I stashed a pen. “Wait, before you do that—throw me one of your boots.”
IDENTITY SECURITY DIVISION
WRAITH CASE STUDY: AUGUSTA PINE
PHONE CALL TRANSCRIPT DURING PORTLAND HOSTAGE CRISIS
PREFECT
Well, I have confirmation that my asset is alive.
ISD DIRECTOR
