Page 110 of Serpent King's Revenge

Blood slicked the steps beneath me, making footing treacherous, but I didn't let it slow me. I twisted, turned, kept the momentum going until I burst through the last line of defense.

Time to get to work.

I hit the cold floor and rolled, my body on autopilot as I lunged for the instrument table. No time to waste. My fingers danced over the metal tools—rusty pliers, a thin knife, scalpels laid out like some twisted surgeon's fantasy—and then the branding iron, still plugged in, its glow promising pain.

"Come on," I muttered under my breath, my back screaming from the impact.

With a grunt, I grabbed the dead guy by his collar, hefting the lifeless bulk up just enough to block the next attacker. The guard stumbled into the corpse, his knife swinging wild, throwing him off his game. It was sloppy, but it bought me seconds, precious seconds.

The scalpel hit the floor with a clatter that was almost lost in the chaos. My hand snapped up, gripping the rusty pliers and the knife like they were extensions of my own battered will to survive.

"Left!" Knuckles' strained shout cut through the din just as I spun, driving the pliers into the thigh of the man before me. He howled, his leg buckling, giving me the chance to shift focus as another attacker barreled towards me.

"Watch it, Nate!" Knuckles yelled again. He was still slumped on the chair, but sharp-eyed, watching my back even through his pain.

I was still on the ground, this guard thinking he had me beat. Big mistake. With a quick jab, my knife found a home in his upper thigh. He screamed, anger flooding his face, but pain threw him off. Without a second thought, I leapt to my feet and drove the knife into throat.

Blood sprayed as I pulled it back out again.

I tasted copper.

"Behind you!" Knuckles' warning came just in time.

I turned to see another goon, all muscle and rage, swinging a chain at me. I stepped aside, snatched the chain mid-air, and yanked like hell, pulling him in close. My knife plunged into his stomach, a cruel twist sealing the deal.

He dropped like a sack of bricks, done.

Blood from the last guy was still warm on my blade when I caught the others eyeing me. They were sizing me up, trying to figure if they could take me down while I was beat up and breathing hard. I could see it in their eyes—they were nervous, but so was I.

My lungs were burning, every breath a battle. I knew I couldn't keep this up much longer, so I switched it up. Pushing off the blood-slick floor, I bolted for the table crammed with grim tools, my eyes locking on the red glow of the branding iron.

"Come on," I hissed under my breath, gauging the distance.

I snatched the handle, the heat biting into my palm through the ragged cloth wrapped around it. Without missing a beat, I swung around, arm cocked back. One of the guards was already lunging at me, knife aimed for my gut.

"Hey!" I yelled, just to steal his focus.

It worked. His eyes flicked to mine, and that's when I launched the iron straight at him. It spiraled through the air, end over end, and slammed into his face. The smell hit us both before the scream tore from his lips—a mix of burned hair and flesh. He stumbled back, hands clawing at the glowing metal.

No time to look. One of the last guys was raising his gun.

I hit the ground, rolling with a grunt, and my hand latched onto the cold chain. It was thick, heavy, just what I needed. With an arm that screamed in protest, I wrapped it tight around my forearm. Made myself a quick shield. The metal links dug into my skin, but it was nothing compared to what these goons had in mind for me. The guy with the gun tried to shoot—realized his clip was empty—tossed it aside and ran.

I slammed the arm wrapped in steel into his jaw.

He went down.

Across from me, only one guard was left standing. He eyed me, then the bodies of his buddies. We were both panting, both sizing up the mess between us. I straightened up slow, wiping blood from my mouth with the back of my hand, feeling the sting as it mixed with cuts.

"You’re not getting paid enough for this," I told him in Mandarin. "Leave it."

I saw it in his eyes—doubt, the flicker of fear. He knew he was outmatched, even if he wouldn't admit it.

But the guard squared his shoulders, clutched his knife tighter.

He didn't budge.

Big mistake.

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