Past the sunken couch, a man in camo staggering to his feet, fumbling at his rifle.
I rotated my hips and twisted my right wrist, all in one synchronized motion.
I knew the blade would miss before it left my hand.
Even in the haze and heat I realized my body wasn’t right. My heart should have pounded, but instead it jackhammered against my ribs. My throat felt too tight, my head pressurized, and despite holding my breath the stink of vaporized door seemed to burn in my lungs.
The mere sight of Kit’s doppelganger had totally jacked me up.
No time for yelling at myself, though.
No time to cool myself down, either.
Recovering from the first throw let me launch my second knife.
The first blade sailed past the mercenary.
A heartbeat later, six inches of black steel buzzsawed across the
