Page 108 of The Thief
"Five guns against one, Freddie. Even you aren't that good."
I smile. It's not a nice smile. "Want to bet?"
The first man makes the mistake of shifting his weight, telegraphing his intent to shoot. I put two bullets in his chest before he can clear leather.
The second one's faster, gets his gun up and aimed. But he's standing too close to his partner, bunched up like they’ve never done this before. One knife throw takes them both down, the blade passing through the first man's throat and into the second man's chest.
Three down. Three to go.
The remaining gunmen are spreading out now, trying to get angles on me while staying clear of their boss. It’s the professional response, but they're thinking like soldiers instead of street fighters.
Street fighters use everything as a weapon.
I grab the dead man's chair and hurl it at the nearest gunman. He ducks, but it buys me the second I need to close distance. My hands find his throat and twist hard. His neck snaps like a dry branch.
Four down.
The next one's smarter, he keeps his distance, firing three quick shots that miss by inches. He's forgotten about the windows, forgotten that glass breaks easily when a human body hits it hard enough.
I tackle him through the office window that looks down over the warehouse. We smash through the glass and fall eight feet to the concrete below. I land on top of him and stay on top. He doesn’t get up.
From the broken frame above, the last gunman freezes in the doorway, he’d been covering the office entrance, waiting for me to run. He thinks he still has the advantage.
I don’t give him time to find out. I push off the body, sprint for the stack of crates and the steel ladder bolted to the warehouse wall, scramble back up through the ragged window and into the room.
He raises his hands. "I surrender?—"
The bullet takes him between the eyes. I don't have time for prisoners, and mercy is a luxury I can't afford when Alastríona's bleeding.
Six down.
But Trace is gone.
The chair where Alastríona was tied is empty, rope cut clean through. There’s blood on the floor, drops leading toward a door I didn't notice before.
"Freddie!" Her voice is distant but strong. He's got her, but she's still fighting.
I follow the blood trail through the door, down a back staircase that leads to the loading docks. An emergency exit—probably planned from the beginning. Trace is smart enough to have an escape route ready.
They're fifty yards away when I reach the dock. Trace is dragging Alastríona toward a waiting car, the knife still pressed to her throat. She's trying to slow him down, make herself deadweight, but he's stronger.
"Let her go!" I shout.
"Come any closer and I'll open her throat!"
But he's moving wrong, he’s off-balance, focused on the car instead of the threat behind him. Amateur mistake from a man who's used to having other people do his killing.
I line up the shot, finger on the trigger, when everything goes to hell.
Alastríona suddenly twists, breaking free of his grip for just a moment. Enough time for me to see the knife flash, see her stagger, see blood bloom across her shirt.
He stabbed her. The bastard actually stabbed her.
Red floods my vision. All tactical thinking disappears, replaced by pure rage.
I'm running before I realize I'm moving, closing the distance with murder in mind. But Trace is already diving into the car, engine roaring to life.
The car peels out, tires smoking, heading for the street. I get three shots through the rear window but can't tell if I hit anything.
