The bullets were flying wild. I stayed crouched behind the overturned display rack, my heart was pounding hard, the music box still tight in my grip. I could hear the bast**d breathing heavily—he was pacing, cocky, but then—
Click.
A pause.
Another click.
He was reloading.
That was my chance.
I sprang from where I took cover like a storm. The man fumbled with his mag, his eyes widening as he saw me close the gap.
“Too late,” I growled.
My fist landed square in his face—his jaw cracked beneath the force. He stumbled, but I grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall. I brought my elbow down hard on his shoulder—bone snapped—then drove my knee into his ribs. I felt two, maybe three of them give way.
He gasped.
I twisted his arm back until it broke, and then swept his
