Everything broke at once. The doctor bolted for the door. Ashur dipped, snatched a fallen baton, and hurled it. It smashed into the back of the doctor's neck. He pitched forward and hit the floor belly-first.
No one breathed. My eyes were wide; I couldn't even feel my bleeding leg.
A guard screamed and charged with his baton. Ashur turned into him, caught the man's wrist midair, torqued it—then slammed his forehead into the guard's nose and flung him onto a lab bench.
Another guard came from behind with a live taser, jamming it at Ashur's neck. Unfazed, Ashur spun, clamped a hand around the man's throat, and with the other ripped the taser out of his grip.
Holding the man aloft, Ashur watched him pant for air.
He tilted his head, studying—then jammed the live taser between the guard's teeth and pulled the trigger.
It was brutal to watch. The man convulsed as current ripped through him; his mouth and face blistered. Smoke curled from his slack lips, his legs kicked uselessly off the floor. The stink of burned flesh flooded the lab. His muffled, agonized screams knotted my features. At last, Ashur dropped him.
The two guards who'd held me earlier just stared—eyes blown wide, faces drained.
Patrick looked like a corpse dragged out of a grave—purpled, swollen; I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd wet himself.
Then the young guard beside me screamed and charged Ashur. Patrick, snarling, grabbed the collar of the guard frozen at my side and shoved him after the first. "Kill him."
Both rushed Ashur. He fought them at once. With a single baton, he disarmed them fast—hoisting one like a carcass and slamming him to the floor, then snatching the other baton and smashing his fist into his mouth.
An arm clamped around my throat and yanked me upright. Pain spiked. The rancid reek told me it was Patrick using me for a shield.
"Ashur!"
I locked onto Ashur. A guard with a ruined, bloody face had fallen to his knees in front of him. Ashur stood over him. He swung the baton down on the man's skull; blood welled and ran from beneath the helmet. The body tipped sideways and hit the tiles. Ashur turned toward us—attention fixed on Patrick.
Patrick jammed the gun against my temple and shouted from behind me, "You hurt the doctor or me, and I'll blow her head off!"
I stared up at him—at Ashur—and found only two cold, dark marbles aimed at Patrick. His face was pallid, almost lifeless. His bruised mouth curled, just a little. His eyes held something like mockery.
Patrick's breath hitched as he pressed the gun harder. "One bullet, you hear me?"
Ashur stepped over the fallen guard—boot on the man's head as he passed—and kept coming. I was nothing but eyes. My heart hammered; heat flushed through me like fever. I couldn't look anywhere but at him.
My life meant nothing to him. He was free now. I was already excess weight—bleeding, slow, a problem.
Ashur came on, ignoring Patrick. I could hear Patrick's long, frightened breaths. They heated the back of my neck and made my skin crawl. His grip tightened at my throat.
Ashur stopped—one step away. Every muscle in me locked. He fixed those empty eyes on Patrick and moved his well-shaped lips.
"Four hundred and f— forty— three."
Patrick jerked his head forward, yelling by my ear, "What?"
Ashur took another step, and I knew I'd been right—he didn't care if Patrick put a bullet through my skull. His terrifying eyes never left Patrick. The pressure on my throat kept climbing. Air thinned.
"The c— count," Ashur said, voice cold and mocking. "The number of times I've… tortured you in my head."
My heart fell through me. I could feel Patrick's fear bleed into my bones.
Ashur closed the last of the distance. His rasp tore at my nerves. "Now tell me, P— Patrick— h— how do you want me to kill you?"