Page 48 of Burning Justice

Her vision began to blur. She flung her arms around uselessly. Her fingers contacted something metal. The bowl of eggs. She gripped the edge of the bowl and whaled it against the man’s head. Runny egg covered his face, dripping down his forehead behind the glasses.

Mercifully, his hold around her neck loosened, then he let go and took a step back. She drew in a long, wheezing drought of air.

He lifted his glasses and swiped at his eyes. Not enough for her to see his face. She kicked out with her foot, racking his balls. When he doubled over, she raced into the living room, banging her hip against the wood workbench and falling to her knees. On the way down, her forehead grazed the corner of the bench, and she cried out.

She scrambled to her feet. Behind her, booted feet pounded on the bare wood floor. There was no way she’d make it to the door. She grabbed a hammer from the workbench and threw it at him. He dodged the tool and kept coming. Next, she grabbed a screwdriver and hurled that at his face. The thick, plastic handle hit him with a glancing blow, and he grunted, putting his beefy hand to the side of his head.

“Bitch,” he growled.

He took another step toward her. She picked up the only other tool on the bench that she hadn’t thrown—the framing nail gun. It was still plugged into the compressor and fully charged. This baby shot out three-and-a-half-inch nails.

“You wanna see my bitch?” Gemma gritted out. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” She raised the nailer and pointed it at him. He froze. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She pulled the trigger and…nothing. Nothing happened.

She pulled it again, then one more time. Still, nothing happened. It took another half a second to understand why.

Pneumatic nailers were designed with an inherent safety sequence. The tip of the gun had to make contact with something, then be fully depressed before firing off a nail.

Shoot. Pardon the pun.

The man laughed.

Gemma gripped the nailer tighter, readying to throw it in his face. That oughta leave a mark.

She started to raise her arm when he charged her, slamming her back against the wall and pinning the nailer between their bodies. He rammed his forearm against her neck. Her vision blurred again, and she couldn’t breathe.

There was no way she could overpower him. She started to black out, felt her limbs going numb. I don’t want to die. The man’s face looming above her blurred. There’s so much I still want to do. Finish renovating the house. Kiss Brett again.

Her grip on the nailer loosened.

The nailer.

It was jammed between their bodies. Was there enough pressure for the safety mechanism to disengage? Praying she still had the strength, she canted her wrist, angling the tip of the nailer away from her body and against his. She pushed as hard as she could, hoping to create enough pressure to disengage the safety mechanism…and pulled the trigger.

Ka-tunk.

He roared, then stumbled back, clutching his side. “Fuck!”

Gemma doubled over, sucking in a raspy breath, then lifted her arm and swung the nail gun against him, directly over the wound she’d just inflicted.

Another loud cry, and he fell to his knees.

She let the nailer drop to the floor, then staggered to the door, drawing in painful breaths with each step. She fumbled with the lock, desperately trying to twist it open, but her hands shook too badly.

Open. Open, dammit!

Breathing hard, she glanced over her shoulder.

The man was pushing from the floor, still holding his side. A vicious sneer curled his upper lip.

Oh God, no.

No way could she let this goon get hold of her again. If she did, he’d re-channel all that cruelty in her direction.

Her heart pounded, and she gripped the lock tighter, managing to twist it open this time. She flung open the door, stumbled onto the porch, and raced down the stairs.

Footsteps pounded behind her. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and her stomach knotted with fear.

He was coming after her.