realized that with much acuity.
Overconfidence. A wonderful thing. She let herself look trapped. She let herself look frightened, and took advantage of the chance to make her chest heave with her panicked breath. He’d quit watching her face at all. He took another step, and the Abakan’s muzzle with its oddly shaped self-cleaning muzzle brake drifted away from Selena.
She still didn’t want the rifle to go off. But she wouldn’t mind quite as much if it did.
As he hesitated on the verge of the step that would put him within range, she put deliberate revulsion into her voice. “You have no right to touch me.”
His expression flickered into empowered outrage. “You are in my country! You play your political games with my people! You should have stayed where you belonged!” He took those last few steps in a rush, eager with assumed victory.
Selena dropped into a balanced crouch, thrusting the oven cleaner in his face and spraying with steady aim. By the time she hit the crouch, his victory had turned to boyish cries of pain. Only a youngster, at that. It wasn’t hard to take him down, levering him around her hip as she bounced back up to her feet.
He landed hard, air knocked from his lungs with a grunt, cries of warning silenced—at least, until he caught his breath. She wrenched his rifle away and tossed it aside, and as the air whooped back into his lungs he rolled in pain, his hands clamped over the lye-infested chemicals she’d sprayed in his eyes, Selena targeted the nearest sink. She’d rinse his eyes, bundle him up, and stick him in—
Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement, and she had only enough time to think how stupid she’d been, that she should have been prepared for a second Kemeni. This one was bigger, heavier and wasted no time—he slammed into her hard, knocking her back against the gleaming tile wall. She groped for her pocket as he literally picked her up off her feet and flung her against the wall again. Her vision turned to sparks and darkness, and still she hunted her pocket. He backhanded her, knocking her aside; she crumpled to the floor.
But she found the pocket. And as he lifted her up to start all over again, she pulled the ice pick free and jammed it into his ribs, aiming for the heart.
He grunted when the wooden knob hit his ribs and twitched off the blow to shove her back against the wall, one hand pulling back to hit her again.
Die, dammit!
Incredulous, Selena withdrew the ice pick to try again, but suddenly understood—he was a big man, a huge man, and even if she’d hit his heart, even if she’d holed his lungs…the holes were very small indeed. He could do plenty of damage before keeling over, and he might well cause enough ruckus to bring others—and enough damage to Selena that she could no longer continue this self-appointed mission.
With a snarl, she took his next blow, another to her already burning cheek and brow. This time she rolled with it, though it stunned her all the same.
She drove the ice pick home at the base of his skull.
He stiffened. Selena squirmed, still trapped, her vision prickling back to show her the stunned astonishment on his face and the already dead look in his eyes. She wiggled the ice pick around just to be sure. He spasmed and went utterly limp, collapsing so suddenly she had no chance to find her feet; she went down with him. But she bounced back up, staggering and mad about it. Shake it off.
When she had her balance she stood over him and glared down. “You really shouldn’t have pithed me off.”
The young Kemeni’s groan came right on cue, but before she dealt with him, Selena yanked the rifle away from the dead terrorist and went to the double swinging doors, glancing out the small windows. She saw no one. Maybe she’d gotten lucky…but she wouldn’t count on it. She wouldn’t dawdle. She hauled the unresisting boy to the kitchen sink and shoved his head under cold running water. He quickly realized the benefit
Overconfidence. A wonderful thing. She let herself look trapped. She let herself look frightened, and took advantage of the chance to make her chest heave with her panicked breath. He’d quit watching her face at all. He took another step, and the Abakan’s muzzle with its oddly shaped self-cleaning muzzle brake drifted away from Selena.
She still didn’t want the rifle to go off. But she wouldn’t mind quite as much if it did.
As he hesitated on the verge of the step that would put him within range, she put deliberate revulsion into her voice. “You have no right to touch me.”
His expression flickered into empowered outrage. “You are in my country! You play your political games with my people! You should have stayed where you belonged!” He took those last few steps in a rush, eager with assumed victory.
Selena dropped into a balanced crouch, thrusting the oven cleaner in his face and spraying with steady aim. By the time she hit the crouch, his victory had turned to boyish cries of pain. Only a youngster, at that. It wasn’t hard to take him down, levering him around her hip as she bounced back up to her feet.
He landed hard, air knocked from his lungs with a grunt, cries of warning silenced—at least, until he caught his breath. She wrenched his rifle away and tossed it aside, and as the air whooped back into his lungs he rolled in pain, his hands clamped over the lye-infested chemicals she’d sprayed in his eyes, Selena targeted the nearest sink. She’d rinse his eyes, bundle him up, and stick him in—
Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement, and she had only enough time to think how stupid she’d been, that she should have been prepared for a second Kemeni. This one was bigger, heavier and wasted no time—he slammed into her hard, knocking her back against the gleaming tile wall. She groped for her pocket as he literally picked her up off her feet and flung her against the wall again. Her vision turned to sparks and darkness, and still she hunted her pocket. He backhanded her, knocking her aside; she crumpled to the floor.
But she found the pocket. And as he lifted her up to start all over again, she pulled the ice pick free and jammed it into his ribs, aiming for the heart.
He grunted when the wooden knob hit his ribs and twitched off the blow to shove her back against the wall, one hand pulling back to hit her again.
Die, dammit!
Incredulous, Selena withdrew the ice pick to try again, but suddenly understood—he was a big man, a huge man, and even if she’d hit his heart, even if she’d holed his lungs…the holes were very small indeed. He could do plenty of damage before keeling over, and he might well cause enough ruckus to bring others—and enough damage to Selena that she could no longer continue this self-appointed mission.
With a snarl, she took his next blow, another to her already burning cheek and brow. This time she rolled with it, though it stunned her all the same.
She drove the ice pick home at the base of his skull.
He stiffened. Selena squirmed, still trapped, her vision prickling back to show her the stunned astonishment on his face and the already dead look in his eyes. She wiggled the ice pick around just to be sure. He spasmed and went utterly limp, collapsing so suddenly she had no chance to find her feet; she went down with him. But she bounced back up, staggering and mad about it. Shake it off.
When she had her balance she stood over him and glared down. “You really shouldn’t have pithed me off.”
The young Kemeni’s groan came right on cue, but before she dealt with him, Selena yanked the rifle away from the dead terrorist and went to the double swinging doors, glancing out the small windows. She saw no one. Maybe she’d gotten lucky…but she wouldn’t count on it. She wouldn’t dawdle. She hauled the unresisting boy to the kitchen sink and shoved his head under cold running water. He quickly realized the benefit
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