Page 141 of Shadow

Not today.

Asher sprinted after him, closing the distance in seconds. He swung the shovel like a bat, connecting with Draven’s shoulder just as the man reached for the door handle. Draven spun, pain flashing across his face, and lunged.

The man outweighed Asher by twenty pounds, all of it muscle, and he slammed Asher backward into the SUV’s rear panel. Metal dented. Air exploded from Asher’s lungs.

Draven’s fist came up fast, aimed at his jaw.

Asher deflected, drove his fist into Draven’s gut. Once. Twice.

Draven grunted, twisted, brought his knee up toward Asher’s groin.

Asher turned his hip, took the hit on his thigh. Pain radiated down his leg, but he stayed on his feet. He grabbed Draven’s shirt, yanked him forward, and slammed his forehead into Draven’s nose.

Blood sprayed. Draven staggered back.

Another shot cracked through the quarry⁠—

Roger bolted toward the SUV. Panicked.

Draven spun, gun rising toward the ridgeline.

Asher tackled him. They hit the dirt in a tangle of limbs. The gun flew from Draven’s hand, skittering across rocks. Draven threw an elbow that caught Asher’s cheekbone. Stars burst.

And yeah, Asher hurt—his ribs, his arms, everywhere—but he also had eighteen months of fury and frustration fueling every move.

He caught Draven’s next punch, twisted his arm, drove his knee into Draven’s kidney.

Draven bucked, tried to roll them. But Asher had position now. He locked his arm across Draven’s throat, pulled back in a sleeper hold, pressure building.

Draven thrashed, clawed at Asher’s forearm, but his movements grew weaker.

“Stop, Asher!”

Roger, his gun on Asher.

Asher shot a look at him.

From the ridgeline above—another shot.

Roger shouted as the dirt skipped up beside him. Then he turned and ran.

Asher glanced up at the shooter.

Daphne stood on the ridgeline, some fifty feet away, holding a rifle, then started running down the slope.

Draven thrashed in his grip. Asher tightened his hold. Not killing. Not losing control. Just containing. Draven’s struggles slowed, then stopped as unconsciousness took him.

In his peripheral vision, Destiny inched toward the SUV on her hands and knees—thigh-shot, not lethal, but slowing her—elegant facade finally shattered.

He looked up at Daphne again. She was still moving down the ridge, rifle trained on Destiny, who’d frozen halfway to the vehicle.

“Don’t even think about it,” Daphne called.

Destiny slowly raised her hands, that calculating mind already working on her next move.

But there wasn’t one.

Not this time.