Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(97)

“Move, move, move! Police!” she shouted, leaping up the last stair. “This is the police!”

The flash grenade exploded on impact, two feet in front of her. Even with the visor, the blast of light burned against her eyes. Momentarily blinded, she laid down a stream along the floor, hoping to keep the target contained.

She felt return fire—heat and pressure against her shoulder, her hip, pivoted.

Willow hit her hard—a shoulder in the sternum, with momentum behind it. It took Eve down, stole her breath, but she rolled, threw out a hand, managed to snag the girl by the ankle.

Got a vicious kick in the head that had her helmet vibrating.

She heard shouting through the glare, the smoke, through her earbud. Pounding feet. More than seeing, she felt her quarry swing around, shove up from where she’d fallen, and fire toward the shouts. Because Eve rolled again, the next kick glanced off her ribs. She tossed up her legs, scissored them, connected hard enough to send Willow stumbling.

Seconds before the next flash exploded, she saw the blur of movement shoot to the left. She feinted right, heard the whine of the strike from the handheld shimmer the air where she’d been. From a crouch, she did a fast forward roll toward the doorway in the direction the blur had gone.

She dove left this time, so the strike shot through the opening.

Thinking of her team, thinking of blocking escape, Eve kicked the door closed.

She couldn’t see, not clearly enough through the smoke, through the glare. Which meant she couldn’t be seen. Any attempt to communicate with her team would give away her position.

She did what Master Wu taught her in those strange and fascinating lessons in the dojo. She breathed through her toes, became the fish—whatever the hell that meant. She risked lifting her visor—she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear through the echoes. She went absolutely still, and let her senses rule.

The faintest sound, like the movement of the smoke in the air. Following instinct, Eve fired toward it, aimed low. Heard the hiss of shock, rolled, fired again.

The door crashed open, and shouts rang through it. The volley of strikes zipping through the smoke, the opened door had her shouting to Get back! Get back! even as she sprang up to dive clear herself.

She caught a glimpse, barely a glimpse through the glaring billow of smoke. The girl wearing a riot vest, the laser in one hand, the grenade in the other. The grenade hand unsteady—it was unsteady—from a glancing stream.

Eve’s weapon and the grenade went off simultaneously. Still tuned, Eve heard the rush of boots across the floor, leaped over, slammed the door. The resulting thud and fall brought only an instant of satisfaction.

Eve fell on the target, grappled with her in the choking smoke.

It was ugly. A hard knee to the crotch seared straight through Eve, an elbow shot had her eye burning, watering, but she managed to grip Willow’s weapon hand with her left, began to twist. They rolled, with the girl getting in a couple of decent punches while Eve focused on disarming her.

The laser went off, shot a strike through the privacy screen, smashed the window.

“Give it up!” Eve ordered. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“Fuck you!”

When the door slapped open again, Eve rapped Willow’s weapon hand hard on the floor. “Hold fire! Hold fire! I’ve got her—almost. Don’t fucking stun me.”

She shifted, using her weight to increase pressure. Later she’d think that slight change in angle had caused the point of the combat knife Willow jerked out of her belt to slice along her hand rather than her throat.

But the pain, the smell of her own blood, changed Eve’s tactics.

“Fuck this.” On that sentiment, she gave Willow a sharp head butt—the advantage was hers considering the helmet—then she short-jabbed her fist into Willow’s larynx.

She heard the knife clatter, felt the laser hand convulse, then give. Still working half-blind, Eve shifted again, shoved Willow over, yanked her arms behind her back.

“I’ve got her,” Eve called out as she snapped on restraints. “I’ve got her! Hold fire. And somebody get this smoke clear.”

A little light-headed and queasy from it, Eve dragged off her helmet. It didn’t make it better, and, in fact, brought it home that her head pounded like a bass drum.

Someone moved through the haze toward her. Of course it would be Roarke.

He crouched beside her, took her bleeding hand. “We need the MTs.”

“Just need to mop it up.”

“There are plenty to mop her up, so—” He guided her toward the door as her team flowed in to deal with the rest.

“Just a little fresh air,” she managed. “How long was I in that crap? An hour?”

“Under five minutes from the first flash to the takedown.”

“Under five.” She gulped in clearer air on the second floor. “It felt like an hour.”

“Every bit of it,” he agreed as he took a handkerchief from his pocket to wrap around her bleeding hand. “Couldn’t get to you,” he told her, “and when I nearly did, you slammed the door in my face.”

“Timed it so she ran right into it. I didn’t want her getting out of the room. Didn’t want to risk it. Or one of my team getting blasted, or blasting me by mistake. Magic coat or not, a lot of weapons on scene. Couldn’t call out and give her a bead on me.”