Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Just slightly too late.
Because hands planted at my hips.
And I was flying forward down steep wooden stairs.
I felt the impact.
And the crack.
A rib.
I'd bruised and busted a rib or three in my time, but this one felt different. The pain was sharper. It was hard to think beyond.
But I had to think beyond it.
I had to get up. I had to scramble back up those stairs.
Behind me, I could hear the shrieks and whimpers of women, lost somewhere in the dark and cold.
Before me, though, I still saw an open door.
And I knew.
Oh, I knew that if that door closed, I would be in for some deep shit.
I ignored the deep pain.
I ignored the heavy feeling in my chest.
I got on all fours, forced my body to straighten, charged forward, ramming my body weight in the lower body of Patrick, knocking him backward, seeing his back crack against the counter as my hand sought and found my karambit, charging forward on pure instinct.
I was vaguely aware of clamoring behind me. Bare feet on wooden stairs. A slapping noise everyone would recognize.
But I was too distracted by the whirring of my heartbeat and the tightness in my chest and the curses being hurled at me to dig too far into it.
Patrick's body slumped.
I'd missed the artery, but he was losing fast, he wasn't going to make it without intervention.
One down.
Two to go.
The guard barreled in from the back door, sweaty, eyes wild as he caught sight of the girls running off.
I could worry about them later.
If they were runaways or foster kids, they were probably pretty street smart. They would get safe, get help.
I had to finish this.
The guard was smaller, but wider than Patrick, all shoulders and thighs, barreling toward me, hand reaching behind him.
He was a better fighter than his boss, more street, more natural.
He was taking every bit of my focus.
And when I saw Thomas charging into the room, I had a feeling I was officially in over my head, that there was no way I could fight them both off. Not with my chest feeling so tight. Not with the screaming in my rib.
Apparently, though, I wasn't the only woman in the room bent on vengeance.
I thought they all had fled, but one had stuck behind. Maybe to try to help me. Maybe too in shock to think of running.
I didn't know.
What I did know was she was present enough and angry enough and smart enough to reach the only weapon lying in plain sight in the room.
See, I had seen a lot of shit by this time. I had doled out so much violence. I had been witness to pure evil.
As such, I wasn't really sure what I thought of a higher power anymore. I wasn't sure I could believe in something that allowed so much wickedness, so much cruelty, to flourish in the world.
But right then, in that moment, I saw it.
God was the righting of wrongs by any means necessary.
God was vengeance.
God was a woman with a butcher's knife.
I saw the blade sink into Thomas's back just as my karambit flew from my grasp, dragging my attention back to the fight at hand.
My other blade was in my boot.
But something inside me told me there was no way I could bend down with the screaming in my chest.
My arm flew out instead, a scissor to the throat, cutting off his air much like my own felt restricted.
Catching him momentarily distracted, my arm grabbed his neck, slamming it down onto the corner of the counter, the whack loud even to my ears.
It might have been enough.
But I didn't take chances.
Especially not if it might be my last job. I was starting to feel a little lightheaded from the lack of oxygen.
I wasn't feeling great about my chances.
If I had to go I was taking all of them with me.
Jerking his head back, I whacked him against the counter.
Two. Three. Four more times.
I was too winded to keep going.
And the entire front of his skull was bashed in.
It was done.
"Hey," I called, voice coming out a lot weaker than I intended, even more evidence that I didn't likely have a lot of time left. "Hey, he's dead," I called again to the woman in the black tee with her tumbling red hair, her arms covered in red too. Blood. A lot of fucking blood.
Thomas's body was spread over a half-wall that led into the dining space, his entire front carved open, the flesh there resembling mincemeat.
"You need to go," I added, finally dragging her attention over to me, seeming to process everything at once. "Listen to me," I added, knowing I didn't have long to tell it all to her. "You need to get that shirt off. You need to clean that blood off. If you're going to the police. You need to get that evidence off of you."