That word doesn’t come out loud. It hits inside my chest like something breaking open.
I hit the first one at full force. No warning. No slowdown. My shoulder drives into his ribs, sending him slamming into the side of the van hard enough to shake it. His grip loosens, not fully, but enough.
Her body sags. Dead weight.
That hits wrong. Too wrong.
I catch her before she hits the ground. One arm around her, pulling her into me just enough to keep her upright.She’s already fading. Her head drops against my chest, breath uneven, body going slack in my hold.
Rage comes easily. Not the loud kind. This is quieter.
Worse.
I lower her carefully, too carefully for what I am, just enough to get her out of the immediate fight without letting her hit the pavement.
The second man looks up.
Too late.
My fist connects with his jaw, snapping his head sideways. The needle is already empty, already done, clattering uselessly against the pavement as I drive into him again.
The third man comes out of the van. Bigger than the first two. Mask up his face. Something black in his hand, not a gun. Baton. Collapsible, already extended. He swings for my head. I step in instead of back. Most men swing expecting distance. Take it away and they lose the shape of the hit. The baton glances off my shoulder instead of connecting clean, pain flashing hot down my arm. It doesn’t matter. Pain is information. Not command.
My hand closes around his wrist. I headbutt him. His nose breaks against my skull, and blood spills over the black mask. He staggers, but he doesn’t drop. Better than the others. Stronger too. His free hand grabs my cut, trying to pull me off balance.
I let him. Then I use the momentum and drive him sideways, slamming him against the side of the van. His grip tightens, but mine’s already under his jaw. I shove his head back until the back of his skull hits glass. The window cracks in a spiderweb pattern. He grunts, swings the baton again from a bad angle, and catches me along the ribs.
Fuck.
That one lands.
My breath cuts short, and something old and mean opens inside me. Not now. Not with her down behind me. I wrench his wrist hard enough that the baton drops, then I drive my fist into his gut, again, again, again, until his body folds. When he bends, I bring my elbow down across the back of his neck and drop him to the pavement. He hits on his hands and knees. I kick him in the ribs hard enough to roll him onto his side. He stays there.
The driver finally moves. Door open. Foot out. Gun in hand. I grab the second man by the back of his hoodie and yank him up just enough to put his body between me and the driver. The driver freezes. Smart enough not to shoot through his own man. Dumb enough to point a gun at me anyway.
“Back off,” he barks. His voice is steady, but his hand isn’t.
I stare at him over the half-conscious body I’m holding. “No.” One word. That’s all he gets.
His eyes flick past me. Toward her.
Bad choice.
My grip tightens around the hoodie. The driver shifts his weight. He’s thinking. Door open behind him, engine still running, one man down at his feet, two ruined, one in my hand. He didn’t expect resistance. Not real resistance. Men like him build plans around people freezing, obeying, breaking down.They don’t plan for me.
“Let him go,” he says.
I tilt my head slightly. “Come get him.”
He swallows.
There. That’s the moment.
I shove the man in my grip forward hard. He slams into the driver’s side door, knocking it wider, and the driver flinches left. His gun hand dips just enough. I close the distance before he gets it back up. My hand clamps around the slide and barrel, forcing it away from me. His finger jerks, and the shot cracks through the street, loud enough to rip the night open. The bullet goes wide into the pavement. No scream follows.
Just silence behind me.
I slam the driver’s hand into the doorframe until the gun drops. He swings with his other hand, catching my jaw, and my head snaps slightly to the side. For half a breath, I taste blood. Then I look back at him. His face changes.
