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.”