Midnight by Ellen Connor Page B

of you before you take ten steps. All my men are in position. You can’t do anything but die here.”
    A raider screamed, “Mexican bitch! I’m gonna tear your head off and—”
    She shot him before he finished the sentence. “I’m from Guatemala, you hijo de puta .”
    They didn’t listen, of course. They charged toward town. Rosa dropped three of them as fast as she’d claimed. The other two were smarter, using cover to block her shots. More crept in from all sides, slinking between buildings. For the first time since she’d settled in the valley, Peltz’s dust pirates reached the center of town. But her bravos were ready, sweeping out of shadowy hiding places. Even half drunk, they were more than a match for this desert trash. Such men didn’t train or build; they only scavenged and stole. They were human hyenas, as bad as those damned hellhounds.
    Ingrid grinned as two men ran for her. With her slim build and gleaming pale hair, she looked almost ethereal in the moonlight. She greeted the first with a block, a blow to his windpipe, and a smashing blow to the back of his neck. He went down before the second one reached her. Lightly, Ingrid leaped away from his clumsy attack. She kneed him in the groin and followed with a punishing kick to his knee.
    Rosa took a shot when she had one, but with the close fighting below, she feared hitting one of her own men. Close combat hamstrung her other sharpshooters too, but they maintained a wary eye. Falco and Ex laid down cover fire, preventing more raiders from cresting the hill.
    “West, Falco,” she called. He turned to drop a couple of late stragglers.
    She studied the battle in the street below, looking for tactical advantage. Brick laid a raider out with one punch and whirled for another. Death came from above, as Ex shot the one Brick had knocked out. Efficient, playing to our strength. Rosa nodded her approval. They would do this. They would keep doing it until no one remained to offer challenge.
    To her surprise, Chris waded in. He had a lean build that didn’t seem suited for hand-to-hand. But he appeared to enjoy brawling. Satisfaction showed in every well-struck swing. He fought as if he’d learned the hard way. No fancy moves. Just anger and wiry strength. Good intuitive technique, though—flurry to the kidney, slam to the eardrums, hook, uppercut. The last blow sent his opponent’s head snapping back. Rosa heard the crunch even from her position.
    Damn. Broke his neck. Chris was stronger than he looked.
    Another ran at his back. She shouted a warning. The raider managed to get a knife in Chris, but she couldn’t tell how bad it was. He threw the bastard to the ground. Rosa sighted and shot, slugging a bullet into a meaty shoulder. Chris took advantage of the wound and dug his fingers in. The other man screamed and screamed . . . until he didn’t anymore. The doc showed no hint he had trouble taking lives.
    Jameson preferred to fight alone. He was so fast that he could take on three or four men at once. His blades gleamed as he twirled, part Filipino knife style, part gutter survival. With his free hand he broke a man’s arm. The raider screamed while Jameson cut his throat. Dead in five seconds. She’d never seen anyone stand up with him longer than that. Lightning speed combined with his utter focus.
    Echoes of gunfire came from other parts of town. Rifles sparked from rocky outcroppings, dropping any attackers who still crawled. She identified Mica and Viv as the shooters. None of the women but Ingrid would fight in close combat, but the rest were fair shots. They did their part in defending Valle.
    Rosa took aim at those who tried to run, except for one. She called to him, “Tell your leader we’ll hit back if he doesn’t stop testing our defenses. I promise we won’t be as kind as we were this time.”
    “I’ll tell him,” came the terrified reply.
    Shit, he sounds young.
    A knock of guilt always stirred in her chest when that happened.