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Uncle Ray struggles, sputtering and coughing, as he pushes himself up enough to give Gunn his hand. Once he manages it, Gunn easily pulls him up.
When he stands, his wide eyes zero in on his burning vehicle. “What the fuck happened?”
Just as I turn, something large surges from the side of the Land Rover. It’s Bob, and he’s completely engulfed in flames.
“Fuck!” I sprint toward him as I take off my leather jacket to put out the fire.
But before I can reach him, the sound of a weapon’s fire has me ducking behind the nearest car. I glance at Gunn to find him in a similar crouched position under the cover of an oak tree. He heard it too, that unmistakable crack through the air that we’ve grown acutely attuned to. All of the streetlights have been blown out, the only illumination cast by the fire.
Just as he tugs his Glock from its holster, I do the same. I’m dimly aware of my uncle’s large body slithering to the door of his restaurant and somehow managing to get inside without being killed.
Meanwhile, Gunn and I are still in danger. As is Bob, who is still flailing. That is, until a single shot is fired, and I realize he was the target when he abruptly stops moving.
Fucking mercy kill. I’ll give whoever the fuck is out there that.
Gunn nods in the direction of the assailant, and I nod back. We both know his position. Unfortunately, he knows ours as well.
Placing my two index fingers together, then pulling them apart in a wide circle, I indicate to Gunn that we need to give the fucker a wide berth. To circle around and hit him from behind.
Hoping this works, I push off my haunches and move quickly between any cover I can find, going wide before moving center.
That’s when I get my first glimpse of the bomber. Only, it’s not ahelike I supposed, but a fuckingshe. The petite blonde is wearing a black biker suit, which, even with its padding, doesn’t hinder her ability to maneuver between bushes. She holds her rifle close to her shoulder, the barrel following the trail of her gaze as she searches for us in the dark.
Her posture, speed, and determined movements tell me this isn’t her first rodeo. She’s trained to kill and is probably fucking good at it.
The image of my brother lying in a bed, having been assassinated by a professional female, comes to mind. Given the circumstances, I’d almost be willing to bet my own life that she’s the same bitch who took his. Bile rises in my throat at the same time as I lift my gun, aiming at her blonde head.
I’ve always been a good shot. The key is to find something small on your target. For her, it’s the silver hoop dangling from her ear. All I have to do is pull the trigger…
My finger twitches. I fucking hate killing women. Not to mention, she’s the biggest link to the Ferryman.
In my hesitation to end her, I shift, and some fucking twig gives beneath my foot, barely audible. But the woman must have bionic hearing, because she simultaneously ducks and rolls out of the line of fire.
I burst from behind the vehicle. However, I don’t go far. As if she has the power to fucking teleport, she appears right in front of me, the hilt of her firearm making contact with my face before I can move.
Then, again and again, she hits me, like a hammer pounding rapidly from above until I’m forced onto a knee, my hand up protectively. Somewhere in the middle of it, I lose my grip on my gun.
Any regret over killing a woman goes out the window. I want this bitch dead. Using brute force, I surge forward, ram my shoulder into her belly, and send her flying. She attempts to aim her weapon, but I kick it away before she can touch it.
I wipe the blood from my lip with my sleeve and slide my six-inch blade from my boot. Never bring a gun to a knife fight.”
Her green eyes go wide as she stares at the shiny metal about to end her life. “Boy, you’ve got a big one.”
I smirk. “It’s even bigger up close.”
She smiles. “I bet. But it’s still not as big as mine.”
In a flash, she produces her own knife. And it is, in fact, bigger than mine.
The light glints off its mirror-like surface, and I momentarily see the image of a man reflected in it. It looks so much like Tony, it stuns me, a reaction she doesn’t miss.
Taking advantage of my distraction, she whirls her legs like a windmill, kicking my feet out from under me. I fall hard, but I don’t have a moment’s reprieve, because just then, she’s straddling me.
Fucking little bitch barely weighs anything, but she punches like a man. Every fist to my face feels like a sledgehammer. Where in the holy hell did this she-demon come from?
It takes every lesson I’ve learned in fighting to keep her knife-wielding hand away from my throat. Probably because she’s not fighting the way I was taught on the streets. She’s fighting with the precision of an assassin.
I throw in several punches of my own, but if they hurt her, she doesn’t flinch.
