The boots get closer.
A voice barks something in a language I don’t recognize.
I blink hard.
Force my body to move.
Not here.
Not like this.
Not dying in the gutter like a dog while she’s still out there.
I grind my teeth and drag myself to my knees.
The world tilts sideways, but I stay upright.
Barely.
My pistol’s gone, blasted somewhere into the rubble.
Doesn’t matter.
I’m still a weapon.
I always have been.
I snatch a jagged piece of rebar off the ground, my fingers slick with blood.
The first merc rounds the corner, rifle up.
I throw the bar like a spear.
It drives into his throat.
He gurgles and drops.
The others hesitate.
Good.
Hesitation gets you killed.
I lunge forward, half-crawling, half-running, blind rage and raw instinct propelling me faster than my body should allow.
Another shot cracks past my ear.
I duck low and barrel into the second merc, driving my shoulder into his gut. We hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and swears.
I get my hands around his throat.
Squeeze until he stops struggling.
Until the last ragged breath wheezes out.
Only when he goes limp do I roll off him, gasping, my vision swimming in and out of black.
Two down.
