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Twice.

Something gives under the second hit.

He wheezes and grabs for my hair. I duck, scrambling toward my pack, reaching for the crowbar handle sticking out of the unzipped top.

Almost.

He catches the back of my jacket and yanks me off-balance.

My shoulder hits the floor. Pain bursts white behind my eyes. He drops on me, one knee driving into my bad thigh.

I snarl.

Actual snarl.

Very ladylike. Very teacher of the year.

Across the aisle, Leon moves.

The older man swings the gun toward him, but Leon kicks his arrow sheath across the floor instead of lunging. It skids under the bottom shelf and spins into my reach.

I grab an arrow without thinking.

The younger man raises the knife again.

I drive the arrow into his thigh.

Deep.

He screams, a raw, tearing sound, and falls sideways. I roll with him, wrenching the arrow free. Blood pumps hot over my hand.

Across the aisle, the gun goes off.

The shot blows through a shelf, bursting a row of paint cans above Leon’s shoulder. White primer splatters across his jacket like the world’s stupidest bucket challenge.

He is already moving.

Two strides. Fast. Brutal.

He catches the gunman’s wrist and wrenches it sideways.

The crack is loud and vicious.

The man screams, but Leon drives a fist into his throat and cuts it short. The gun drops. Leon catches it before it hits the floor, turns it, and fires once.

Clean between the eyes.

The older man drops, skull cracking against the tile.

The younger one crawls for the doorway, dragging his bleeding leg behind him. One hand leaves a red smear across the dusty floor. The confidence is gone now.

Just a man crawling away from the woman he thought would be easy.

I rise, arrow slick in my grip.

He rolls onto his back, eyes wide. “Wait.”

No.