Chapter 18 #3
Rivers’ counterstrike came fast, a punch aimed at Evie’s throat. Evie blocked, barely, and they broke apart, circling.
“Your brother also said you telegraph your strikes with your left shoulder.” Rivers tsked, then smiled. “A tell from an old injury.”
Blast you, Evan.
Evie feinted right, then struck left—but Rivers had anticipated it, stepping inside Evie’s guard and driving an elbow toward her face. Evie twisted, taking the blow on her shoulder instead. Pain exploded through the joint.
Evie stumbled back, and Rivers regrouped, stalking to the left, body straight, taut. Confident.
“Do you dream about him?” Rivers said. “Evan. Hear his voice calling for you in the dark? Wonder if maybe, just maybe, you could have saved him?”
Every night.
But she didn’t voice it. Wouldn’t.
“You should. Because you’re a murderer, Evie Montgomery.” Rivers’ words stung as painfully as her strike. “You killed your own flesh and blood, and no amount of patriotic duty will ever wash that blood from your hands.”
Don’t listen.
Evie’s heart lurched against the words, her head and her heart vying for a victory.
She’d done the right thing. The only thing. To save others.
Blake’s face came to mind.
And a good man loved her. Even though he knew the worst of her.
Evie stilled herself against the fear. The guilt. “I am in the business of stopping traitors, Miss Rivers,” Evie whispered. “No matter who they are.”
Something shifted in Rivers’ expression. Hardened.
Evie hadn’t fallen into the psychological trap.
Which meant the only other way out … was by force.
Rivers’ hand moved to her side, and Evie caught the glint of moonlight on metal.
A gun.
Evie kicked over a nearby side table and dove behind it just as the first bullet whizzed past, splintering the wood in the wall behind her. The awareness she’d upset Rivers’ composure ticked up a little of Evie’s confidence. Perhaps the woman wasn’t as detached as she wished Evie to believe.
Leaning around one side of the table, Evie returned fire, but River dropped into a roll, disappearing behind the corner of a wardrobe.
There was no way the gunfire went unnoticed in the house.
No way it didn’t bring attention.
This needed to end before some poor innocent stumbled into the middle of this mess and got himself killed. Or worse—provided Rivers an escape.
But Evie’s position still put her between Rivers and her exit.
Rivers emerged from the other side of the wardrobe, firing at close range, but Evie used the table as a shield, slipping from its other side between shots and tackling the woman.
They hit the floor hard, Evie on top. She drove her fist toward Rivers’ face, but Rivers twisted, and the blow glanced off her cheekbone instead of connecting solidly.
Rivers followed up with a knee toward Evie’s midsection. Evie twisted, took the impact on her hip, and drove her elbow into Rivers’ face. Felt cartilage give way. Blood sprayed.
But Rivers, rage taking over, barely seemed to notice. Out of nowhere, the woman jabbed a dagger toward Evie’s chest. Evie spun, but not fast enough, the blade sinking into her shoulder—the already wounded one.
White-hot pain exploded through her arm.
Evie grunted from the impact but refused to yield, landing a fist in Rivers’ chest. It only stalled the woman for a moment. In a flash, Rivers grabbed at Evie’s shoulder wound and dug her nails into it, evoking a cry of pain.
In that moment of distraction, Rivers slammed Evie against the wall, forearm across Evie’s throat, cutting off air.
“You are weak,” Rivers hissed, blood streaming from her broken nose. “You care. Probably worried about some patient wandering in here and getting himself killed.” Her grin turned serpentine. “Compassion distracts.”
Evie drove her knee up—once, twice—felt it connect with Rivers’ abdomen. Rivers gasped but didn’t release the pressure on Evie’s throat.
Can’t breathe. Need air.
Evie slid her hand down to her hip and drew out her second knife, driving the tip into Rivers’ side.
Rivers screamed, releasing Evie’s throat. Evie sucked in air, stumbling, gasping. But Rivers came at her again, inhumanly fueled by some dark rage. She feinted a strike, then dropped low to sweep Evie’s legs out from under her.
Evie hit the floor hard on the side of her wounded shoulder, her knife skittering across the boards. She rolled, attempting to regain her feet, but Rivers was faster.
The woman lunged forward, and Evie barely managed to get her knees under her before Rivers was on her.
But this time, Evie was ready.
As Rivers reached for her, Evie pivoted on her good shoulder and drove both feet up into Rivers’ midsection—a desperate mule kick that sent the woman flying backward into the wardrobe with a satisfying crash.
Rivers hit hard, and the wardrobe rocked on its base. For a precious second, she was dazed, slumped against the wood.
Evie scrambled to her feet, ignoring the screaming pain in her shoulder, and dove for her knife.
Her fingers had just closed around the hilt when Rivers recovered. Evie had barely made it to a stand when Rivers grabbed Evie’s wounded arm and wrenched it behind her back, the movement sending fresh agony through Evie’s shoulder and weakening her at the knees.
Evie struggled, but then the cold press of steel hit her throat.
A knife.
“You’re good,” Rivers said, breathing hard. “But your brother was right. You’re too soft.” She leaned closer, the blade pressing against Evie’s skin. “And it’s going to cost you your life.”