Page 143 of Wilde and Deadly

Sabin pivoted, but he was too late. A hard strike to his wrist sent his rifle skidding across the tunnel floor, clattering into the shadows.

But he didn’t slow. His hand snapped to his belt, and a knife unsheathed in a blur of silver. He snarled, the sound feral, and brought his blade up in a vicious arc.

Blood sprayed.

His opponent staggered back just as another attacker crashed into them from the side, slamming them both into a steel support column with a sickening clang. Sabin twisted, ripping his knife free, swinging again?—

A rifle butt slammed into his ribs.

Hard.

He grunted, but instead of falling, he used the momentum. Turned into it. Drove his shoulder into his attacker.

The impact sent both of them stumbling—but Sabin stayed on his feet.

Another shadow dropped in behind him.

Rowan saw it before he did.

She twisted violently, trying to scream a warning, but the vise around her throat crushed her airway, turning her warning into a choked rasp. Blood pooled in her mouth.

A boot crashed into the back of Sabin’s knee, and he buckled. The two men moved in on him, fast, efficient, their strikes brutal and precise.

Sabin roared, twisting, his knife still clutched in his hand?—

A rifle butt smashed into his temple.

His whole body jerked.

His knife slipped from his fingers.

He stayed on his knees for a heartbeat longer, his face swelling with each blow, blood flying. He met her gaze, his eyes filled with pain and fury and a flicker of defiance even as they swelled shut.

Then his body sagged.

His breath hitched—like his lungs had just given up.

He pitched forward. The impact was ugly. Final.

Now both Weston and Sabin lay motionless on the grimy tunnel floor. So still. Too still.

And Rowan couldn’t fucking get to them.

Rage and desperation surged through her. She thrashed against her captor, every muscle straining. Her vision started to gray at the edges from lack of oxygen, but she refused to give in, even when a fist slammed into her ribs. She twisted, throwing her weight backward, trying to break the hold on her throat. Her attacker—the same one who had so brutally attacked Weston—didn’t budge. He might as well be made of stone. He tightened his arm across her windpipe, cutting off her air.

She couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Dark spots danced in front of her eyes.

The world tilted.

No!

She clawed at his mask. If she was going to go down, she wanted to see this fucker’s face so she knew who to haunt.

Her lungs burned. The pressure in her skull was unbearable. Dark spots exploded in her vision. Her limbs went lead-heavy.

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