With her thoughts still on the boy staggering away from her, dimming eyes staring down at the knife in his chest, she rose again, carried by her own momentum, and brought her forehead into the bearded man’s throat. He choked and fell backward.
Shouts from the hallway.
Shit.
A figure dashed by, headed for the gangway and the upper decks as Syrina picked up the fallen boy’s dagger. She took a step out the door and hurled it into the woman’s back. There was a tearing pain in Syrina’s chest. She fought down the image of the boy staring at the knife hilt with dying eyes. The woman crumpled as the blade sank into the back of her neck.
Syrina coughed and gasped for air, spitting a fresh wad of blood into the snarl of pipes while running down the narrow hallway as another eight figures rushed
