J. Robb - Survivor in Death

She leaped forward. One of the males-she couldn't tell which. Good and stunned. She ripped off his night goggles, grabbed both his blaster and his combat knife. And was running for cover when footsteps pounded up the stairs.

She fixed on the goggles, and it was light, that faint green tinge that made everything look surreal. She slipped the knife into her belt, gripped both blasters, and came out firing.

She barely made the movement behind her, was able to pivot, but not quickly enough to avoid the knife. It sliced through the leather of her jacket, missed the vest, and ripped into her shoulder.

Using momentum and pain, she swung, back-fisted, and heard the satisfying crunch of cartilage.

She blasted toward the main steps again-keep him off me!-as her assailant leaped at her again.

The kick landed in Eve's sternum, stole her breath, and had the blasters squirting out of her fingers like soap.

She could see Isenberry, blood streaming out of her nose, grinning. Her blaster was holstered, her knife in combat grip.

Likes to party, she thought. Likes to play.

“Unfriendlies approaching!” Isenberry's cohort shouted from downstairs. “Abort!”

“Like hell. I've got her.” The grin widened. “I've been looking forward to this. Get up, bitch.”

Drawing the knife out of her belt, Eve pushed through the pain and rose. “Lieutenant Bitch. I broke your fucking nose, Jilly.”

“Going to pay for that now.”

She came in with a swipe, spun, and missed Eve's face with a vicious back-kick by a breath. The knife slashed down toward Eve's chest, ripped cloth, and skidded over shield.

“Body armor?” Isenberry spun back, planted her feet. “Knew you were a pussy.”

Eve feinted, jabbed, then rammed her fist into Isenberry's grin. “Sticks and stones.”

In fury, Isenberry reached for her blaster. Eve rose on her toes to leap. And the lights flashed on, blinding them both.

Roarke came in the front like lightning, rolled to his left an instant before the blast hit-two instants before Summerset engaged the lights.

He saw the man ripping off goggles, pivoting behind a doorway.

He could hear the sound of combat up the stairs. She was alive, and she was fighting. The cold fear that had squeezed his heart loosened. He sent out another blast, rolled in the opposite direction.

“See to Eve!” he ordered Summerset and bolted through a doorway to intercept his quarry.

The lights were bright now, and he listened for any sound. There might have been sirens, far off yet. It was best to wish for them, he knew. But there was that cold, hard center of him that wanted the fight, and the blood.

Leading with his weapon, he started to ease around a corner when the scream, the sound of tumbling bodies, broke his concentration for an instant.

In that instant the blast seared across the top of his shoulder, singeing skin, tearing pain. He smelled blood, burned flesh, and-gripping the weapon in his left hand now-shot out streams, somersaulting under them.

Glass imploded. Shards flew. He saw a blast knock his opponent back, and was on him like a dog.

Eve lay at the base of the steps in Inga's parlor, body vibrating with pain, hands slick with blood. The knife was still in her hand, gripped as if her fingers had welded around it. Isenberry was beneath her, their faces so close Eve could see the life drain out of her eyes.

She heard the child under the sofa whimpering, but it was like a dream. Blood, death, the knife hot in her hand.

She heard footsteps rushing down the stairs and forced herself to roll off Isenberry.

Pain screamed through her arm, her shoulder, so her vision wavered. She saw a room washed with red light, heard herself pleading for mercy.

“Lieutenant.” Summerset crouched until she saw his face. “Let me see where you're injured.”

“Don't touch me.” She lifted the knife, showed him the blade. “Don't touch me.”

She saw the child huddled under the sofa, face white. White so that some of the blood that had spilled on the fall dotted it like red freckles.

She saw the eyes, glassy with shock. Somehow they were her own eyes.

She pushed herself up, stumbled into the kitchen.

He was alive. Blood on him, too. Well, there was always blood. But Roarke was alive, standing up now, turning toward her.

She shook her head, dropped to her knees as her head spun and her legs trembled. And crawled the last few feet to where Kirkendall was sprawled.

Blood on him, too. But he wasn't dead. Not yet. Not yet. She turned the knife in her hand, gripping it blade down.

Was her arm broken? Had she heard it snap? The pain was there, but it was like a memory. If she put the knife in him, if she drove it through him, again and again, knowing what she did, feeling what she did, would the pain go away?

She watched the blood drip from her fingers and knew she could do it. She could, and maybe it would end.

Killer of children, raper of the weak. Why was a cage good enough?

She laid the point over his heart and her hand shook. It shook until her arm shook, until her heart shook. Then she drew it back.

Pushing up to her knees, she managed to shove the knife into her belt. “I've got men down. We need the MTs.”

“Eve.”

“Not now.” There was a sob-or it might've been a scream-trying to claw out of her throat. “Baxter went around back. He's down. I don't know if he's still alive.”

“Cops out front were stunned. I don't know how bad, but they were alive.”

“I need to check on Baxter.”

“In a minute. You're bleeding.”

“He-” No, no not he. “She caught me a little. The fall was worse. I think I dislocated the shoulder.”

“Let's have a look.” He was gentle, helping her to her feet, and still she went pale.

“Get a good hold,” she told him.

“Baby, you'd do better with a blocker first.”

She shook her head. “Get a good hold.” She got a strong grip on him as well, hissing out three readying breaths as she stared into his eyes.

Wild blue eyes, concentrate.

And with a jerk, one that brought her stomach to the base of her throat, turned her vision bright white, he snapped the shoulder back in place.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” She caught her breath, nearly nodded, and was grateful he was holding her upright. “Okay. That's okay. It's better.”

And she'd needed the jolt, she thought, not just to dull the pain in the shoulder, but to bring her back, fully, to where she was.

“The kid,” she began.

“Summerset.”

He came out with Nixie clinging to his neck. “She hasn't been hurt.” There was the faintest of tremors in his voice. “Only frightened. She needs to be taken out of here.”

“I want to see him.” Nixie's voice was thick when she lifted her face from Summerset's neck. Her cheeks were wet, her eyes still streaming. But they met Eve's. “I want to see who killed my family. Dallas said I could.”

“Bring her over here.”

“I don't think-”

“I'm not asking you to think.” Eve crossed over herself, and when she wiggled down, took one of Nixie's hands in her bloody one. “The woman's dead,” she said flatly. “Neck snapped when we took that header down the steps.”

Not my arm, Eve thought, though it ached like a rotten tooth.

“There's another upstairs.”

“He's unconscious, unarmed, and restrained,” Summerset said.

“This one's hurt bad,” Eve went on. “But he'll live. He'll live a long time-the longer the better-because he'll never be free again. He'll eat and piss and sleep where and when he's told. Where he's going… you getting this, Kirkendall?” she demanded. “Where he's going, it's like death. Only you live through it, day after day after day.”