Page 93 of Victorious

The assassin was faster.

She fired once, the bullet tunneling through Rios’s skull. The soldier’s shot hissed past her leg a moment later, so off course that it had to be intentional.

And then the agents came.

They rushed toward her, one from the bedroom and one from the hall, their faces hidden by black helmets, their voices cold, mechanical. “GET DOWN.”

June did not comply.

Instead, she turned and fired three shots into the first one’s visor, the bullets ricocheting but the force knocking the first soldier back as she rounded on the second, and buried a blade in the soft meat of their armpit where the armor had a gap.

The first agent opened fire, but clearly, they’d been told to shoot to wound, not kill, because the bullet took her in the shoulder. June staggered, trading one borrowed body for another before she lost her hold. She ducked, weaving in too close to shoot again, and grabbed the agent’s gun, pinning the action as her free hand snaked beneath the plated collar, found their throat. June should have felt a rush of memories, but there was only black.

And when she tried to mimic them, she couldn’t.

June frowned, and snapped their neck instead, took one step toward the open door when she heard boots, and knew that more were coming.

She turned and went the other way, glad she’d shelled out for a fancy suite, the kind with its own balcony. She threw the door open, the night air rushing in, started forward when a hand grabbed her by the hair, and hauled her back into the room.

June stumbled, and turned, ready to fight.

But there was no one there.

Or rather, no one she could see.

Too late, she felt the nearness of another body. An EO. The boot caught her in the back of her knee, and she let the force carry her forward, down, into a crouch. June turned and slashed, grateful to feel metal meeting fabric, flesh.

The EO flickered into being. Tall, broad-shouldered, blond, his eyes a mess of twisting color.

“Traitor,” she growled, as he trained his weapon at her head.

She grabbed the barrel of the gun and twisted, the shot punching a hole in the wall instead of her. June sprang to her feet and as she did, she changed, taking on the largest body in her wardrobe, a hulking figure she’d collected at a gym. The EO had disappeared again, but she knew he was there—they were still connected by the gun—so she slammed her massive boot into his chest, felt the impact, the satisfying sound of air being forced out of lungs, and he let go of the gun as two more EON agents spilled into the room.

And June surged out onto the balcony and jumped.

Six stories was a long way to fall.

The man she was wearing died on impact, his form shattering against the patio. The force of it flung June out of his body and back into her own, leaving her momentarily breathless, dazed. She rolled over with a groan, and looked down at her hands—her hands, long and delicate—splayed on the cracked stone. Fuck, she thought, reaching for the safety of another shell as she shoved up to her feet.

Halfway there, the bullet caught her.

A single shot, fired from the balcony six floors above. It tore through her side, the pain white-hot, brighter than anything she’d felt in years. It stole her breath as blood—her blood—dripped onto the ground. Panic flooded her mind, but her instincts took over, grabbing the first body she could reach.

A businessman she’d shared the elevator with.

Between one breath and the next, she hid herself inside it, the pain snuffed out by the intervening shell. June drove her new body up and toward the lobby doors as two more shots splintered the pavement at her feet.

As she cut into the lobby, she changed again, forcing herself to slow to a more deliberate pace. A man with somewhere to be. She scanned the marble foyer as she walked, no sign of the agents yet, the lobby largely empty, save for the attendants at the front desk, a stylish couple in the corner, an old woman searching through her purse.

June veered toward the old woman. She slid a hand into the pocket of her slacks—the pants weren’t hers, but the contents were—and fished till she found a crumpled bill.

“Excuse me,” she said, touching the woman’s wrist. “Did you drop this?”

The old woman craned her head, rheumy eyes blinking behind large red glasses.

“Oh,” she said, looking from the handsome businessman to the twenty in his hand. “Oh, I don’t think so … but maybe, let me check…” She returned her attention to her purse, pawing through the contents. June didn’t have time for this, so she tucked the bill in the old woman’s purse and said it should go to someone sweet. And before the woman could protest, June walked away, stiff shoes tapping on the lobby floor.

As she passed through the Iverly’s revolving door, she changed again, trading the suave businessman for swollen knuckles and blue-white hair, red glasses heavy on her sunken cheeks. Her step went from a smooth stride to an awkward shuffle. June gritted her dentured teeth. She never collected shapes like this, her wardrobe chosen for its strengths, not weaknesses. But bodies weren’t just weapons. They were shields.