Page 77 of Collateral Damage
Through the curtain of falling white, a shape bleeds into existence.
I blink, but the image doesn't dissolve.
Standing ten feet away from us, her silhouette stark against the pines, half-obscured by the veil of descending flakes, is Ava.
In her arms is the .308 bolt-action rifle I stashed under the bunk bed.
Lord help us, she’s barely standing, shaking like a leaf, missing her coat and gloves, and wearing a pair of men’s boots two sizes too big.
“Get away from him, Reagan!” she yells. “That was your only warning shot.”
Reagan lets fly a slew of profanity. “Get back in the cabin! You aren’t supposed to be out here. This isn’t how it goes.”
“This is how it ends,” she says, her eyes locking with mine.
His hand moves to a chest pouch. I recognize the threat instantly. Fragmentation grenade. But I’m not the target anymore.
His eyes are locked on Ava. “I warned you,” he roars at her. “You brought this on yourself.”
Before he can aim, I bridge the gap in a single, lunging stride.
I hit him at full tilt, lead shoulder first, catching the hard corner of his body armor with an impact that should have leveled a wall.
The joint gives way with a sickening pop. My shoulder slips out of place, something tearing deep inside as it goes. A white-hot bolt of electricity rips from my neck down to my fingertips, and my arm goes half-dead at my side. We hit the slush and roll. The grenade skitters away into the snow.
“Ava! Take cover!” I yell.
Reagan is on me before I can clear the haze. He drives a heavy boot into my side, pinning me into the frozen mud, and launches a short, brutal hook. My head snaps back. The world splinters into a kaleidoscope of gray. My jaw shifts, a sickening grind of bone on bone. I don't pull away; I collapse into him, using my weight to smother his next strike.
I jam my chin down, trapping his hand against my collarbone, and drive my forehead into the bridge of his nose.
The cartilage collapses. He grunts, blood spraying across his goggles, and tries to buck me off with a frantic surge of his hips. I stay heavy, grinding my shin into his thigh to kill his leverage.
He lunges for the knife on his thigh. I catch his wrist mid-draw, slamming it into the ice, then grind my knee into his forearm until his fingers splay and the steel drops. He counters by slamming his free fist into my neck.
I find the hilt of my own knife with my working hand. One smooth, reverse-grip draw.
Reagan bridges, but I drop my chest onto his, killing the space, and drive the blade upward under the rim of his ballistic vest.
I piston the steel into the gap between the ribs, twisting. I pull back and drive it in again, and again, threading the needle through the tight space of his chest.
As he collapses, a heavy, muffled vibration echoes from within the snow, shaking the ground around us.
I sink to my knees. I can’t feel my right hand. I can’t close my mouth. I just kneel, watching the flames lick the sky, my breath coming in ragged, shallow shudders.
"Silas!"
Through the haze, Ava reaches me, falling to her knees. Her hands are shaking as they touch my neck, checking for a pulse that’s hammering like a panicked bird.
"Don't move," she gasps. "Silas, look at me."
I try to speak, but my jaw won't track. I just look at the slump of my shoulder. It’s an ugly, hollow gap.
"It’s dislocated," she whispers. "I have to fix it. Now."
She braces her foot against my chest, right under the armpit. She grips my wrist with both hands.
"Breathe, Silas. Let go."
