Still crushing my throat, he freed a hand and drove another punch into my face. I sagged and rolled; he stayed over me, muttering something taunting I couldn't catch. Through the haze I saw his hand go to his belt. He unzipped his fly and said, 'I'll show you who you've picked a fight with.'
I lifted my head and met his gaze, loathing burning through me. My lips pressed hard; my blood roared.
Suddenly I kicked both legs up and locked them round his waist. Using the grip, I bucked off the floor—and slammed my forehead into his face. He lurched off me and hit the deck on his back.
I hauled in a breath, clamped my hand round his throat and snarled, 'Bastard.'
He punched my side and threw me back down. One hand pinned my throat; with the other he swung a pistol—scooped off the floor—towards me.
I grabbed his wrist, crushed down on his middle finger, and wrenched it out of joint. He yelped, and we both kept our grip on the gun. Veins stood out at my temples; my breath snagged. I forced the barrel up while he fought to angle it at my head.
When the muzzle scraped the roof, I locked onto his filthy eyes and hissed through blood-slick teeth, 'You're right—I'm not like the girls you raped.'
He went slack with shock—and I drove my knee up into his gut. His head dipped; I pulled the trigger…
Blood sprayed the van's ceiling. My whole body drew tight with fury.
His corpse collapsed into my arms. Panting over him, I growled, 'Because I'm a killer.'
The van lurched to a sudden halt and I lost my balance. I pushed up, aching all over; my face was smeared with blood and tears, my hair a wild snarl around me. I staggered to my feet, unsteady, hurting. A hiss rattled from my chest; my throat was choked with grief. I wanted to cry for hours—but even that, it seemed, God had denied me.
I heard the squeal of brakes and cars stopping. Had the police found us? Footsteps. One… two… three…
I lifted my shaking, blood-slick hand and aimed at the doors. Car doors thumped shut somewhere outside. A bar rattled against the rear lock—and the metal doors swung wide.
Yellow light from a car parked opposite speared my eyes. I raised a trembling hand to shield them, took another wavering step towards the opening. Cool air curled through the bay; golden light poured over me. I stopped short and forced my eyes open.
A tall man stood there in a white suit, flanked by the rest of his people—every one of them in black. An eyepatch covered one eye; one sleeve hung empty where his arm should've been. I stared at them with wet, lifeless eyes.
The middle-aged man in a tie fixed me with a steady look. 'Agent number 678, White Rose Division of the Organisation. You're to come with us to your next safe point.'
A thin breath shuddered out of me. My knees shook.
Ashur stepped out of the dark. I froze. His gaze snagged on the man's body first, then lifted—cold, empty—to mine. His tread was heavy, sure, carrying him straight for the doors.
And I felt… weightless.
My knees buckled by the threshold. The gun slipped from my fingers. My eyes closed. I let the wind take me like a dandelion seed.
I tipped forward off the lip of the bay towards the street—but before I hit, Ashur's arms locked round my waist and held me. One arm under my knees, the other round my middle, he cradled me as if I weighed nothing, pressing me to his chest.
The voices around us blurred.
The man was saying something: 'We'll get you to the next secure site… "Zombie" will arrange your transport out of the country…'
My head was tucked against Ashur's chest as he carried me, and the sounds faded further and further away. For a second I felt the heat of his mouth brush my earlobe, and his rough whisper curled there:
'Told you… you'd get hurt, little butterfly.'