“James!”
He’s crumpled on the floor, unmoving.
My eyes snap back to the Amazon. She’s staring at James’s body as if hypnotized.
A growl reverberates in my throat, but I can’t scream. Large blotches burst in front of my eyes, the color of rage. Fueled by pure hatred, I spring forward, aim, and pull the trigger.
The gun clicks.
Empty.
I hurl the weapon at the Amazon. It smashes against her cheekbone with a crunch. Slowly, she shifts her attention toward me and, for the first time, I notice she’s shot. Blood seeps from her side. Her body begins to turn, her gun changing targets. But she’s too slow.
I jump and round kick her extended arm. The gun pops out of her grip, hits the ground and skids under the car. As soon as my feet hit the blacktop, I release another kick, taking advantage of my momentum. The Amazon blocks it with both arms. She flinches, but barely stumbles back. I land in a crouch, and find myself in a defensive position as she throws a kick of her own.
She’s taller, with muscles as big as a bodybuilder’s, but she’s hurt, and I’ve got James to worry about. So I don’t think it a cheap shot when I jab her side, dig my fingers into the bullet hole and try to rip her in two. Blood spurs from her wound coating my hands. She yells and recoils in pain. Lowering her head, she rams forward and slams her curved horns into my ribcage. Air whooshes from my lungs. My side throbs with pain as if I’ve been slammed with a club hammer.
We roll on the ground. I maneuver myself on top and—from somewhere, even though my lungs ache and struggle for air—I manage to get the strength to pound my fist into her wounded side. Her eyes roll to the back of her head. The color drains from her face. Seeing my chance, I leap to her chest, take her by the horns with my bloodied hands and slam her head against the pavement. Her eyes go blank for good, rolling like two white balls on a pool table.
Wiping the blood on my pants, I stand and look at Elliot’s car. Its windows are tinted and cracked in a mess of spider webs caused by so many bullets. I can’t see inside. I waver between helping James and finishing what I set out to do today—what James, himself, set out to do. The last thought makes my decision easy. I walk to the car and reach for the door handle.
Before I can grab hold of it, however, the retractable delivery door begins to roll upward, filling the night with the sounds of whirling gears. Hand frozen in midair, my attention snaps to the widening gap between the loading dock and the door. The whole building seems to be yawning its mouth open, promising to vomit all its wrongness on top of whoever happens to be outside.
Before I realize I’ve changed my mind, I’m limping toward James, kneeling next to him and shaking him. “James!” I press two fingers to his throat and find a heartbeat. “JAMES!” I scream, right into his ear.
He blinks his eyes open and slams a hand to his wounded chest, wincing in pain. His fingers turn red as if they’ve been dipped in paint.
I spare a quick glance to the delivery door. It’s halfway open. Two bright lights shine from inside, blinding me. What the hell? I look away, my retinas flashing with the imprint of two white circles. Hailstone’s people, who are now upon us, split their attention between Elliot’s car and the opening gate.
“James, we have to get out of here.” I shift positions, plant my feet on both sides of his head and slide my hands under his arms. Leaning back, I pull him the way I came. James is so heavy I barely manage to move him a couple of feet. My calf smarts, making itself known again.
“Help me, damn it!” I order in the most commanding voice I have.
James shakes his head, seems to come to his senses, and begins pushing with his legs, trying to stand. All he manages to do, however, is shove himself backward, which isn’t much help.
The whirring from the delivery door stops. I look up, blink at the bright lights shining from the inside of the loading dock. My heart drops, limp with horror. The bright spots are headlights, the halogen lamps of the military Jeep Wrangler I saw in the weapon storage area, the one with the 50 caliber gun mounted at its back.
Behind the huge gun, a massive figure lets out an incensed war cry and proceeds to rip the night apart by unleashing a hellish bullet storm meant to annihilate anyone who stands in his way.
As it turns out, Tusks isn’t dead, after all.