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The world will never know exactly what that guy was going to ask, because the blade of my first throwing knife sinks hilt deep under his chin, in the center of his throat.
He crumples back onto the cot.
With my left hand, I throw across my body to the rear right corner of the room, toward the man positioned opposite the first. And the only man to have his gun drawn.
My aim is better with my right, but the second knife still hits its target. Lodging itself into the center of the man’s forearm, it forces him to drop his gun.
I’m not looking for stealth tonight. I’m not here to be in and out as quickly as possible. I’m here for blood. I’m here to make these motherfuckers pay.
For what they’re in the middle of doing.
For what they’ve done before.
And for what they prevented me from doing with Cassandra.
The man reaches for the knife penetrating his arm, and I can see in his expression that he’s not going to pull it free on the first try.
He should leave it.
He should fight with it in.
But he’s a fucking moron.
The two uninjured men are on either side of me.
And I have two new blades in my hands.
The man on my right lets out a shout as he stops trying to get control of his firearm and leaps for me.
With his hands empty, I snap my attention to the left. That man isn’t ditching his gun, making him the biggest threat. And his gun has already cleared leather.
He pulls the trigger, and the noise is almost deafening in the small room.
The bullet hits dead center in my chest.
It knocks the breath out of my lungs, and I stagger back a step, but that’s it, because I’m wearing a vest. Because, unlike these guys, I’m not a fucking moron.
You don’t bring knives to a gunfight without a little planning.
Plus—I grin—shooting a man and having him not react is kind of scary.
And right now, I want to be scary.
The man’s eyes widen, then drop to stare at the knife hilt sticking out between his third and fourth ribs.
His gun wavers and lowers, then he stumbles back a step, and I watch him concentrate on lifting it back up.
A body collides with my back, and arms circle my neck in a bruising squeeze.
Perfect.
I use the new man’s momentum to spin us, just in time for the stumbling guy to fire.
Two more shots echo inside the small room, and the body behind me jolts as he takes the friendly fire in his spine.
The man with the gun lets out an alarmed sound, and through the ringing in my ears, I can hear his gun clatter to the floor.
The arm around my neck is still squeezing, but not as hard. He’s not dead yet.
