Page 77 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

The blind spot. The vulnerability I flagged just days ago, while Max and Ethan watched over my shoulders.

I round the corner of the building and there they are, crouched beneath the exact window I flagged, already working on the latch with some kind of specialized tool that glints dully in the moonlight.

They hear me before I reach them. They spin around, abandoning their work on the window, their body dropping into a defensive stance that confirms everything I suspected about their training. I can’t see their eyes through the ski mask—can’t see anything of their face, just the dark fabric pulled tight across their features and the rapid rise and fall of their chest.

They’re taller than me by half a foot at least, broader through the shoulders. They must be male, based on their height and build, but lean and wiry rather than heavily muscled.

For a long, frozen moment, we simply stare at each other across the grass.

Then their hand moves, reaches into their jacket, and emerges holding something that stops me cold.

A gun. Compact, the black metal gleaming in the moonlight. He points the barrel directly at my chest.

Shit.

“Stay the fuck back.” The voice is male, as I suspected, but it’s higher than I expected, and there’s a tremor in it, as if he’s nervous. He sounds young, maybe mid-twenties. Experienced enough to know how to hold a gun, but not so experienced that he can quite hide the anxiety I can sense all the way from here.

I raise my hands slowly, palms facing him. But my mind is racing. How long would it take me to get to him?

He’s ten feet away, and the way he holds the gun isn’t quite right. His elbow is slightly off, and the gun almost looks awkward in his hand. His finger is near the trigger but not actually on it. Yep, he’s definitely nervous, which is good, because nervous people make mistakes.

“I said stay back!” His voice rises slightly, the gun wavering in his grip.

I take a step forward.

“I’m warning you⁠—”

I move before he can finish. I’m on him in an instant. My hand shoots out in a strike I’ve practiced hundreds of times, the heel of my palm connecting with his inner wrist at the exact angle to break his grip. The gun flies from his hand, spinning through the darkness in a lazy arc before crashing against the side of the building and skittering off into the dark.

The alarm goes off.

Red lights flood the building’s exterior, strobing in a pulsing rhythm, loud sirens echoing into the quiet night.

The intruder lunges at me.

He’s much faster than I expected. His fist catches my shoulder and spins me sideways, pain flaring down my arm. I stumble but don’t fall. I twist to face him again, years of training in my feet.

I drive my elbow into his ribs, feeling the satisfying impact of bone against bone. He grunts but doesn’t go down, doesn’t stagger as much as he should. We grapple in the flashing red light, and he’s stronger than me but I’m quicker, and I know where to hit. I duck under a wild swing and drive my knee into his outer thigh, targeting the nerve cluster that will deaden his leg if I hit it right.

He staggers, his leg buckling.

Then I see the knife.

It’s in his hand before I can react, a flash of silver in the chaotic light. I jerk back but not far enough, and the blade catches my forearm just below the elbow. The pain is immediate and sharp, hot blood welling up and spilling down my forearm.

But I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

I grab his knife hand with both of mine, ignoring the scream of protest from my injured arm, and twist with every ounce of strength I possess. I feel the bones of his wrist grinding against each other, feel the moment they reach their limit, and then I feel the satisfying crack as something gives way. He screams, and the knife drops to the ground.

Footsteps are pounding in the distance now, and voices are calling out.

He runs.

I start after him, but my arm protests hard enough that I slow to a stop. I press my hand against the wound. He’s already gone, disappearing into the treeline before I can close the distance.

“What the fuck happened?” Finn reaches me first, with Ethan right behind him. I push my hood back.

Finn’s eyes find my arm, the blood dripping from my fingers, the dark stain spreading down my sleeve. His whole face tightens. “Sophie, are you okay?”