Page 83 of Fatal Pattern

Blade pressed his right hand against the chest wound, feeling the warmth seep between his fingers. His left arm hung useless, the bicep wound throbbing with each heartbeat. His nose felt like someone had driven a spike through his skull.

He was losing this fight.

The mask hid most of the stalker’s face, but his eyes glinted with the recognition of wounded prey. He stalked forward, knife slanted low and ready. His eyes flicked on the widening stain of Blade’s blood spreading dark across the sand.

Blade staggered toward the waterline, his chest burning like molten metal. Each breath sent fresh waves of agony through the collarbone wound. His left arm wouldn’t lift, fingers numb and unresponsive. Blood loss was making him lightheaded, his vision swimming in and out of focus.

He needed distance. Time to think.

His foot snagged a rope of seaweed, the slick coil wrenching his ankle sideways. His balance vanished. Leg shot wide, body pitching. His right knee slammed the sand and the shock ricocheted up through his frame.

The stalker’s lips curved into a smile visible beneath the mask’s fabric. He raised the knife high overhead, gripping it like an ice pick, the tip pointed downward for maximum penetration. Death gleamed in the steel as he lunged forward.

Blade’s hand hit wet sand. Without thinking, he scooped up a massive handful of the heavy, waterlogged grit and hurled it upward with everything he had left.

The sand cloud exploded into the stalker’s face like a shotgun blast. Wet granules filled his eyes, nose, and mouth. He screamed and stumbled backward while clawing frantically at his mask.

Blade exploded upward from the sand, adrenaline drowning out every scream of pain from his wounds. He drove forward like a missile, wrapping his arms around the stalker’s waist and lifting him clean off his feet in a textbook double-leg takedown. They crashed into the shallow surf, salt water mixing with blood as Blade slammed him onto his back.

Full mount. Weight distribution perfect despite his injuries. The stalker flailed beneath him, still clawing at his sand-filled eyes, the knife cutting wild arcs through empty air.

Blade trapped the knife wrist against the wet sand with his damaged left hand. Fire tore through him. His right fist came down twice. Precise hammer strikes to the jaw. The first blow stunned. The second made the stalker’s body go limp.

The moment his weight shifted to wrench the knife away, the stalker’s eyes snapped open. Not unconscious. Not even close. Just waiting.

His hips bucked upward with explosive force, sending Blade down hard into the surf. Before he could recover, thumbs drove into his eye sockets like twin daggers.

Pain detonated through his skull—absolute, blinding agony that wiped out every coherent thought. His vision disappeared behind a wall of white fire. He rolled away, gasping, his strength hemorrhaging out with his blood. Every wound screamed as salt water invaded torn flesh.

Splashing. The stalker scrambling to his feet in the shallow waves.

More splashing. Coming closer.

Blade clawed at his eyes, trying to clear his vision, but saw only darkness punctured by dancing spots of light. His left arm wouldn’t respond. His chest felt like molten metal.

This is how it ends.

A single gunshot cracked through the night, sharp above the crash of waves.

The stalker cried out. Scrambling footsteps retreating fast through the dunes behind him.

Blade blinked frantically, salt water and grit mixing into a painful paste. His vision returned in blurry splotches. A silhouette stood at the beach path’s edge. Pistol held ready in a perfect Weaver stance.

Tori.

The adrenaline abandoned him like a retreating tide, taking with it every scrap of strength that had kept him upright. His legs dissolved beneath him. He collapsed backward into the surf, salt water rushing over his wounds like liquid agony. The world tilted sideways, stars wheeling overhead in dizzying arcs.

Splashing footsteps crashed toward him.

Tori’s words sliced through the fog closing in around him. “Harlee, Blade was attacked.”

A clipped silence. A phone. She wasn’t talking to him. “Meet me at his condo.”

The sound drifted. The pressure in his ribs dragged him down, deeper into the black that kept pulling.

“Hurry—it looks bad.”

He tried to answer, maybe crack a joke. Prove he still could. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Nothing came out. Salt water filled his ears, and the world narrowed to the failing drum of his own blood.