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I land in the room in a shower of biting glass, fuzzy colors whipping past and startled shouts rising everywhere.
Even under me, apparently.
My feet hit something soft and yielding. It crumples under my boots. My aching legs absorb the shock before I roll free and come up on one knee.
There’s barely a full second to do recon.
My eyes flick to everything that moves.
Felicity, backed against the wall, that little hell-doll holding a gun to her head with one hand, the other shielding herself with a bright-purple leather jacket pulled up over her head.
Four big men cowering under shelves full of gold bars and tall empty bottles on top, taking shelter from the falling window I destroyed.
Two more goons knocked out cold, unconscious, one with the shape of my bootprint practically imprinted on the back of his skull.
And what’s left of Gavin Coakley.
Dead.
A hole in his skull, his eyes vacant and staring up at nothing, coppery blood pooling on the floor around him in a slow stain.
I don’t even have the luxury of being shocked.
Just half a second to aim and fire.
I take my shot while Paisley’s looking away from Fliss, her gun hand pulled to the side so even if her finger reflexively slams on the trigger, she won’t hit anything.
I don’t aim to kill.
The bullet zings past her, though, cutting at the space between her and Felicity.
With a shriek, Fliss flattens herself against the wall. Paisley throws herself in the opposite direction, swearing a blue streak—just what I want.
Diving to my feet, I throw myself between them, my hands steady on the gun as I take aim.
Warm hands fall on my back, clutching, gripping mad fistfuls of my shirt.
“Alaska?” Felicity’s voice trembles—with fear, with relief, maybe with awe.
“Stay behind me,” I snap off, never taking my eyes off the brat as she recovers, retreating toward her little army of thugs.
She watches me with hooded eyes. She’s like a leopard, just as wary, just as vicious.
No fear written in her.
It’s the numb, experienced look of a woman who’s killed far too many and lived to enjoy her murder tally.
And now she’s got her gun trained straight on me.
Finally, a proper standoff.
Only, she’s got a hell of a lot more guns.
Guns she yells at, turning her head over her shoulder to hiss without ever taking her raging eyes off me. “Get up, you cowards! You afraid of a paper cut? Give this swinging dick his death wish!”
She’s got them cowed; that’s for sure.
All four men start to stand, creeping out from under the shelf.
Only for the entire room to go stiff at the sound of sirens wailing close to us.
I know that sound.
A fire truck.
Here comes the cavalry.
“Boss!” one of the big guys gasps, looking up at the torn skylight like he’s wondering if they can climb out through it somehow. “We...we gotta go. We gotta go, Miss Paisley. If the cops find us here with the dead guy...”
With nervous looks they corral her, herding her with their bodies, practically dragging her away. She looks like she’s ready to fight every last one of them to get at me and Felicity, but like hell I’m going to stop them if they want to turn tail and run.
I just want that gun away from Fliss.
Whatever comes after that, we’ll manage, as soon as she’s out of harm’s way.
“Move with me,” I whisper, angling myself to always make my body a shield between Felicity, Paisley, and her men as they go surging toward the door without even giving us a second glance, leaving their unconscious casualties behind.
I don’t lower my gun till the last of them is out—and I barely get a second to ask, “You okay?”
There’s the sound of another gunshot tearing through the café.
Glass breaking, something a hell of a lot bigger than a skylight.
“Retreat! Fuckers—is that a fire truck? Is that a goddamned AR-15? Who are they? Back, back—get the hell back! We need hostages!” Paisley shrieks.
“Mother fuck,” I snap.
Behind me, Felicity hisses.
“We have to—”
No time.
I barely have two seconds to back us into a defensive position against a side wall—I’m no one’s fucking hostage and neither is Fliss, not again—before the entire gaggle of cornered assholes comes pouring back in like hunted coyotes.
This time with a lot more guns drawn.
I can’t believe this sack of festering idiots didn’t go for the back door.
Not that it would help them much. If I weren’t facing down about half a dozen armed bags of self-propelled trash, I’d be grinning.
Knowing Holt and the other boys, they’ve split up to surround the entire building by now, plus every possible exit. The Heroes of Heart’s Edge haven’t just had their own recent baptisms by fire. They’re all former military men, the same as yours truly.
In other words, the last men you’d ever want to fuck with.
