Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(111)

Once, she’d been too late to save a child from the knife. Not this time. Goddamn it, not this time.

She heard the sirens—backup coming in hot—and so did he. When his grip shifted on the knife, she aimed there.

The stream caught the kid—just the outer edge of it. His body jerked. As Silverman fought to control it and his shaking knife hand, Eve charged.

He dropped the boy, turned into the attack, tossing the knife to his left hand, slashing. When the knife skidded off the coat, she tried for a headshot, took a hard left jab in the face. He followed through, knife and fist, taking them both down in a bone-rattling heap.

She lost her grip on her weapon, rolled to clamp both hands around the wrist of his knife hand before he stabbed the toothed blade into her face. Breath whistling, she got a knee into his gut, used momentum to roll him off. As he sliced down again, she got a kick into his shoulder, sprang up, leaped over his sweeping leg as he did the same.

The boy lay in a trembling heap as they circled each other. She judged her weapon somewhere to the left, and her clutch piece useless. If she tried for it, he’d be all over her.

She danced back as he crouched, passing the knife from hand to hand. Danced back, away from the kid with Silverman’s eyes gleeful on hers.

“You should’ve let me go. Now I’m going to stick this knife in your guts, rip it through, and spill them out.”

She swung into a back kick, vaulted over a raised bed that smelled of earth and green. As she landed, she grabbed a pot with something spearing up hopefully through the dirt, flung it at him. Though he danced aside, it caught his cheek on the fly, left a raw scrape before it hit the painted concrete and shattered to shards.

The sirens screamed closer. Did he hear them? she wondered. She didn’t think so. He was in the zone now. The killing zone.

She leaped onto another bed, pushed off, leading with her feet. Both landed, a human battering ram, center mass. The force sent him staggering back, the knife clattered away across the concrete, balancing the odds. Still he shook off the blow, came at her.

He had her by maybe seventy pounds, a combat-trained vet. He aimed a fist at her throat; she dodged, took it on the shoulder. Pain rang down her arm in clambering bells.

She stopped feeling the blows—the ones delivered, the ones suffered. As she blocked, punched, she tasted her own blood, smelled his. Then he threw her back, slammed her into the trunk of one the trees. Her vision grayed for just an instant, and she saw him yank the detonator out of his pocket.

He grinned as she leaped up, as she gathered to charge. And pressed the button.

Eve, already in motion saw the shock on his face as nothing happened. She rammed him like a bull, grappled with him, then flipped herself back.

Now, she thought, blood in her throat. Fucking now.

She balanced on one leg, shot up with the lifted one to slam two rapid kicks into his jaw. As he stumbled back, she leaped up with the other, plowed it into his midsection.

Mouth bloody, he came at her, and with her muscles relaxed, she whipped kicks at his shins, knees. She heard feet pounding up the stairs, ignored them as she used stiffened fingers, clenched fists to punish soft tissue—ears, eyes, throat.

It rushed through her, the power, the pain, the punishment.

“Get the kid,” she called out to whoever rushed up behind her. “I’ve got this.”

As she coiled to finish it, Silverman made a desperate leap for the wall of the rooftop. Eve lunged forward, grabbed his wrist, slippery with sweat and blood, with both hands.

He dangled there while her muscles screamed in protest. Four stories up. It might not kill him, but she wasn’t going to risk it.

“You don’t get off this easy.”

“I’ll take you with me.” Throwing up a hand, he grabbed her arm, dragged.

She dug in as the toes of her boots slammed the wall. She wouldn’t go over, she would not, but she wouldn’t be able to hold him much longer.

Roarke reached down beside her, adding his weight, his muscle. When Silverman continued to pull, to fight, Roarke ended it with a vicious, short-armed punch.

As he went limp, they hauled Silverman back over the wall.

Adrenaline gone, pain blooming everywhere, she slid to sit, back to the wall. Her breath whistled harsh out of aching lungs.

Roarke knelt beside her.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “It couldn’t have been ten minutes before I got up here, and look at you.”

“Yeah, well.” She swiped at the blood dripping out of her nose. “Look at him.”

She did. He lay dazed, surrounded by a half dozen cops all with weapons drawn.

“The kid,” she said when Baxter crouched in front of her.

“Trueheart’s got him, taking him down to Mom and Dad. He’s fine. Got a scratch. Just a scratch, some bruises.”

“He caught the edge of my stream.”

“He’s fine, LT. Lucid, a little shocky, scared. But he’s fine. Now you? Ouch. Do you want to wrap him up?”

She shook her head, winced when it spun a little. “You take him. He’s going to need medical, then he’s in a cage until I’m ready for him. My weapon—”

Baxter handed it to her. “We’ll bag his knife. You cut any?”

“No. I don’t think. Wrap him up, Baxter.”

“You got it, boss.”

“Magic coat,” she murmured to Roarke as Baxter moved away. “I don’t think he even noticed the blade wasn’t getting through.”