Shit, they’re armed. Bruce had a gun in his right hand. Wayne had a length of chain looped around his fist.
They hadn’t come to talk.
The moment Wayne’s back boot cleared the threshold, I stepped out from behind the door and shoved it hard, slamming it shut. Both brothers jerked and stumbled forward into the kitchen. Bruce swung his gun wide.
I drove the carving knife into his side before he got me in his sights, hard and upward, same way I put down a wounded beast. Bruce made a sound I’d only ever heard from livestock. The pistol skittered across the linoleum and disappeared under the fridge.
His legs buckled, and he went sideways, crashing into Wayne, and the two of them tangled together on the kitchen floor. The chain clattered across the floor.
“Fuck. Bruce. Bruce, you okay?” Wayne heaved his brother off him and came up off the floor faster than a man his size had any right to.
I grabbed the paring knife off the floor and went for Wayne’s shoulder. He twisted away. I still got him, but the blade didn’t go deep enough.
His gaze swept the kitchen floor, maybe looking for the chain, the gun, or both.
I kicked the chain hard. It skittered into the corner behind me.
Blood oozed from Wayne’s shoulder, but it did nothing to slow him down. He straightened to his full height, and in Willy’s tiny kitchen, the walls seemed to shrink around him.
“Bruce. Get up, man,” Wayne said.
“He ain’t getting up,” I growled, raising the knife, wishing it was a hell of a lot bigger.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you.” The rage in his eyes was past thinking. Pure animal.
He swung.
I whipped the knife toward him as I ducked. His fist caught me across the ear, just missing my temple. My skull rang like a struck bell, and I went down on one knee. He grabbed my shirt, and I drove the paring knife into his right forearm.
Wayne roared and released me. Blood spattered across the floor.
I scrambled to the counter, seized the rum bottle by the neck, and spun back to face him.
He ripped the paring knife from his forearm and aimed it at me. But he was holding it all wrong. He switched it to his right hand, then back to his left like neither hand wanted it.
He’s right-handed. And I’d just put a blade through his right forearm.
He wasn’t gonna be lethal now. Good.
He looked down at Bruce. Willy’s carving knife was still buried in his side. The blood spreading across the floor beneath him was as black as oil in the dim light.
“Bruce. Hey. Buddy.” Wayne’s voice had gone up half an octave. The rage stripped back to something rawer underneath.
“He’s dead, dickhead.”
He came at me, and as I swung the rum bottle, I tried to dodge his charge, but the kitchen was too small. The bottle thumped into his shoulder as he hit me like a charging bull. I flew back into the cupboards. Something cracked—the shelving, or my hip, I couldn’t tell which. The bottle flew from my hand and shattered on the floor, glass skidding everywhere.
Wayne punched my gut. Pain ripped up my spine and stole the breath clean out of me.
I slammed my palm into his face, grinding his nose.
He bit my little finger.
The bone crunched, and pain shot up my hand so sharply it wiped out every other thought in my head. I screamed and tried to yank free.
He clamped harder and bit clean through.
Fuck! My little finger was gone from the knuckle down.
