Page 41 of Femme Fatale
She picked up, voice raw. “Boss?”
“We got company,” I said. “Get the girls together. Full lockdown.”
She didn’t ask what happened. Just said, “Yes, ma’am.”
I ended the call and sat there in the dark, the scent of Kara’s perfume still in the air, and tried to remember the last time I’d slept through the night.
Maybe tomorrow, I told myself. Maybe after.
But I knew better.
The next time War Lady came calling, it would be with fire.
I waited until I heard the soft click of the back door before I let my lungs exhale. My knees buckled. I dropped to the carpet, feeling the raw burn of every muscle in my neck and shoulders. A tremor ran through me, like the body knew what my brain wouldn’t admit. I was fucked up bad, maybe worse than before.
I pressed my palm to the wound on my cheek. It stung, but it was shallow. The real damage was somewhere deeper, down in the gristle and bone where Kara’s words had burrowed like a parasite. I could still taste her perfume in my mouth, mixed with copper and fear.
Then I heard it. The faint squeak of floorboards in the hall, just outside the office. I froze. Either Kara was back to finish it, or I’d hallucinated the whole exchange.
I picked up the Glock. It was heavier now, my grip slick with sweat, the metal almost too cold to hold. I braced it on my thigh and waited.
The doorknob twisted.
I fired, once.
The bullet blew through the wood, splintering a perfect hole where the lock met the jamb. The knob stopped turning.
A pause. Then the door burst open, and Kara charged through it.
I didn’t hesitate—I went straight for her, teeth bared. She tackled me backwards, slamming my head into the wall. The impact popped something in my ear, filled the world with a flat, fuzzy whine.
Kara was all elbows and knees, her breath loud and animal. She pummeled my ribs, aiming for the floating ones where cartilage breaks more easily. I grunted, tried to clamp her arms, but she was faster than last time, fueled by something that felt like revenge.
We crashed into the filing cabinet. It tipped, vomiting a year’s worth of ledgers onto the carpet. She got an arm around my throat, squeezed. I clawed at her wrist, dug my nails in, but she didn’t let go.
“Still think you can win?” she spat, voice right in my ear.
I stomped on her instep, hard. She grunted, loosened her grip, and I threw my weight sideways. We rolled over the spilled ledgers, wrestling for leverage. Her cut snagged on a desk leg, so I yanked it, twisting her body down and pinning her head against the laminate.
I remembered what Buck used to say about fights. Hit the other guy first, and last, and never let up in between. So I hit her, palm flat, straight to the nose. She made a horrible sound, half-choke, half-laugh, and blood gushed instantly, bright and hot.
She bit my wrist. Her teeth sank in, right over the blue vein, and she ground down until I yelped. I let go, and she rolled free, grabbing the brass paperweight off the desk. She swung it at my temple. I dodged, but it clipped my eyebrow, and the stars went white-hot for a second.
My left eye swelled, vision blurred. I felt the warm tickle of blood down my cheek, mixing with sweat.
Kara got to her feet first. She was panting, blood on her mouth and chin, eyes narrowed to slits. She held the paperweight inone hand, the other scrabbling for something—anything—on the desktop.
I saw the trophy, the one I’d used earlier. I lunged for it, caught the base, and hurled it at her. It hit her shoulder, spun her sideways, and she dropped the paperweight.
I used the opening. Grabbed her by the back of the head, slammed her face into the desk edge. There was a wet crunch and more blood. For a second, I thought she’d go limp, but she straightened, smiling, blood filling her teeth like a vampire.
Then she punched me in the throat.
The wind left my lungs. I gagged, staggered back, and nearly tripped over the toppled chair. She pressed her advantage, grabbing the lamp and swinging it by the cord. It hit my forearm, snapping the bulb, scattering glass. I caught the base, yanked it from her, and chucked it at her face. She ducked, just barely.
We circled, breathing hard, sweat and blood on every surface. She went for the letter opener this time, glinting wicked in her fist. I backed off, out of reach. My vision tunnelled to the weapon, her hand, the way her knuckles flexed before each lunge.
She dove after me. Her whole weight landed on my hips, pinning me to the floor. I twisted, got a knee up, but she straddled it and punched my jaw. The world went bright for a split second, and I tasted blood in my mouth.
