Her head snapped back as if on hinges, and she sprawled out onto the concrete floor, her gun skittering off into the darkness.
Cheering, from Latham and Harry. I walked toward Holly, saw the blood streaming down her face, and then limped over to Phin, digging at his neck, feeling for a pulse.
He surprised me by opening his eyes.
“… buttons…”
The relief I felt was tangible.
“I’m getting an ambulance, Phin. You’re going to be okay.”
“Bullets…” he moaned. Then he said buttons again.
But it wasn’t buttons. It was batons.
Batons were specialty bullets, used by police for crowd control. Made of rubber. Non-lethal.
I looked up at the table, saw Holly’s bullet-making equipment.
She wouldn’t have risked killing me so quickly. She had other plans.
I heard Harry and Latham yell just as Holly kicked me from behind.
CHAPTER 51
THE BLOW KNOCKED me sideways. I rolled with it, tucking in my head and coming up in a kneeling position, my arms up to block.
I saw little flashes of light, and my vision was lopsided, but I was able to see Holly – her face a Halloween mask of blood and rage – move in and attempt another front kick.
Instinct took over. I swiped away the kick with my left forearm, and my right hand formed a fist and I gave her a sharp jab in the inner thigh.
Holly yelled, retreating two steps. That gave me time to get to my feet. I kicked off my heels and adopted a ready stance, left foot behind me, keeping the weight off my injured right ankle.
Holly wiped a sleeve across her eyes. Her forehead was bleeding like mad. Though baton rounds weren’t lethal, they were still like getting pegged with a slingshot. The blood in her eyes was to my advantage, and I used it.
Biting back the pain, I swiveled my hips and brought my left leg forward, aiming the kick at her chest. Holly leaned away, as I expected, and I brought the left foot down and moved forward, going into a round kick with my right foot.
I extended my knee and felt my heel connect with her chin.
The shock of contact made me gasp and see red, but Holly took the worst of it. Both of her feet left the ground and she hit the floor ass-first – not the preferred landing on concrete.
Pressing my advantage, I lunged forward, wanting to get on top of her and strike at her face or throat.
I was too hasty. Holly scissored her legs out and swept my feet out from under me. I also hit the ground hard.
When a fight goes to the floor, the stronger opponent usually wins. Holly wasn’t only stronger, but her Marine training probably made my police academy training look like ballet. I rolled backward, two or three body lengths away, before getting up on my knees.
Holly moved like lightning, and hit like a baseball bat, throwing a roundhouse punch at my face that I barely deflected in time, taking the hit on the left shoulder.
My whole arm went numb.
She followed up with an equally vicious kick to my chest. I bunched up what little pectoral muscles I had, but her big construction boot knocked the wind right out of me and I went skidding backward across the dusty floor on my butt.
I let momentum take my legs up over my head, and rolled to my feet. My lungs tried to take in air, but they weren’t working. It’s a terrifying feeling, not being able to breathe. I’d been hit in the diaphragm before, and knew that in just a few seconds the muscle would stop spasming and allow me some air, but rationality doesn’t mean much in the throes of panic.
Holly sensed my struggle, and came at me with snarling, bleeding fury, taking two running steps and launching herself into a jumping double kick.
I slipped the first kick, but the second caught me under the chin, cracking my lower jaw into my upper jaw, spinning me around like a top.
I would have hit the floor, but instead slammed into the metal shelves, and was able to grab on and keep from falling.
My breath came back, and I gulped it in, began to choke when something got caught in my throat, and spit out a chip from one of my teeth.
My right ankle was pudding. I kept my weight on my left foot and clutched the metal railing.
“I thought you were third dan,” I said through the new gap in my front teeth. “You fight like a yellow belt.”
Holly wiped the blood from her eyes and fell into her cat stance, her palms flat and fingers extended for pyonson keut.
“And that wedding dress made your ass look huge.”
She yelled, “KIYAA!” and struck with her fingertips at my neck. I pivoted my head around and her fingers met the steel bar supporting the giant shelf.
The shelf won.
I executed an elbow strike, cracking her across the cheek. An illegal move, but hey, no refs.
Holly hit her head against the shelving unit, and I grabbed her hair and helped her hit her head two more times. There was no tae kwon do name for that maneuver, but it felt great.
I was going for thirds when her hand grasped my wrist and she dropped all of her weight down to one knee, flipping me onto my back.
Before I could get my hands up, she used the knife edge of her good hand to break my nose.
I’d never had my nose broken before, but I know she did indeed break it because I heard the snap and the pain brought fresh tears to my eyes.
Again, using blind instinct, I rolled away. The rolling intensified the pain and dizziness I felt, and when I came to a stop I titled my head to the side and threw up.
“Jack!” I heard Latham yell, but he seemed very far away. My vision was a kaleidoscopic mess, but I could make out Holly stumbling toward me, looking like Sissy Spacek at the end of Carrie, bloody and murderous and out of her freaking mind.
A foot away from me, still in his cat carrier, was Mr. Friskers.
“Hang on,” I told him.
Holly lunged.
I picked up the carrier and thrust the corner into Holly’s face. She staggered back, and the door popped open. Mr. Friskers hopped out, gave each of us a disappointed look, and ran off into the shadows.
I switched my grip to the carrier handle, got to my knees, and hurled it at her.
She ducked it, and came at me again.
Standing up wasn’t going to happen for me. It looked like I had a small pumpkin growing out of my foot. My nose made even the tiniest movement of my head pure torture.
Holly looked to be faring better. Her right hand was mangled, and she had some visible bumps on her head, but that didn’t seem to slow her down.
“Enough of this bullshit.”
She reached into her back pocket and pulled out the hunting knife. Charles Kork’s knife. The one I’d so cleverly tricked her into bringing along.
How quickly things could go from bad to worse.
I got onto all fours and crawled away as fast as I could. Harry was the closest thing to me, so I headed for him, reaching out my hand for his chair, and then I felt Holly’s iron grip on my bad ankle.
That pain was bad enough. But when she slashed the blade across my thigh, I thought I’d died and gone to Pain Hell.
I twisted around, the pain giving me superhuman strength, kicking out at Holly with my good foot and knocking her off me.
I stretched out my hand, fumbling for Harry’s lap, my fingers locking around the handle of a what looked like a hairbrush, but when I pulled it out McGlade yelped and I saw that instead of bristles it had a dozen nails sticking out of the end.
Holly jumped at me, bringing down the knife.
I let out a war cry, my reptile brain screeching with rage and fear and pain, and my left arm blocked the downward arc of the knife while my right swung the hairbrush with everything I had, digging into Holly’s face, and tearing much of it off.
Holly spun in a semicircle and hit the floor.
I sat there, clutching the brush, breaths coming out in ragged gasps, waiting for her to get up so I could give her a second helping.