Chapter 132
Raven
My hand shot up—not to block, but to strike. Two fingers, rigid as steel, drove into the pressure point on her inner forearm. The Quchi point. Disrupts nerve signals. Causes temporary paralysis and pain that feels like your arm's being electrocuted from the inside.
I learned it from a Chinese assassin in Hong Kong. Right before I killed him.
Maddie's scream was beautiful.
Her grip weakened—not enough to drop the knife, but enough that when the blade punched into my side, it lacked the force to reach anything vital. Slid between ribs instead of through them. Glanced off bone.
One cut for another, sweetheart.
"My turn," I whispered.
Her eyes went wide. Understanding. Then terror.
My KA-BAR drove up through her ribcage at a forty-five-degree angle, punching through intercostal muscles and cartilage like they were tissue paper. I felt every layer give way—the moment the blade pierced her pericardium with a faint pop, then the heart itself.
Seven inches of cold steel, buried to the hilt.
Her body went rigid against mine. Our faces were inches apart, close enough that I could see my reflection in her dilating pupils.
Maddie's mouth opened, formed a word—probably "what" or "how"—but all that came out was a wet gurgle as her lungs filled with blood. Pink foam gathered at the corners of her lips.
I held her gaze as the light died. Watched the exact moment the neurons stopped firing and Maddie became nothing more than cooling meat.
"That's for the music room," I said softly. "And for every other girl you ever hurt."
Her eyes blazed one last time—pure rage, pure disbelief. How dare you. That's what they said. Even in death, she couldn't accept that someone like me had beaten someone like her.
Then came a final exhalation that smelled of blood and bile, and the fury went out like a snuffed candle.
Then she collapsed.
The knife slipped from her nerveless fingers as she hit the ground, body twitching once before going completely still. Steam rose from my blood-slicked blade in the cold night air.
I stood there for a heartbeat longer, savoring it.
Then my legs gave out.
Oh. Right. Internal bleeding.
I hit the dirt hard enough to restart the agony in my ribs. Spots danced across my vision. My side was warm—too warm—where Maddie's blade was still lodged between my ribs.
Damn. That's inconvenient.
"MADDIE!" Tyler's voice cracked through the clearing, high and panicked. "What the fuck—what the—"
"She's dead!" One of the accomplices stumbled backward, eyes wide. "Holy shit, Maddie's dead!"
"Fuck! If Raven survives—" Another one, voice shaking.
"She'll fucking kill us—"
"Even if she doesn't, we're accomplices! We helped set this up!"
"We're fucked! We're all fucked!"
The panic spread like wildfire. I watched through blurring vision as they turned on each other, voices rising in accusation and terror.
"This was YOUR idea, jackass!"
"No—YOU said we should help!"
"That was your girlfriend, Tyler!" Someone grabbed his shirt. "Your fucking girlfriend! Aren't you going to do something?"
I managed to turn my head just enough to see Tyler staring at me. At the blood. At Maddie's corpse.
At my eyes.
Even half-dead, I could still conjure enough murder in my gaze to make him flinch.
"But—but Maddie started it—" His voice cracked, went reedy with desperation. "She did this—not me—I didn't—"
"Fuck this." One of them snapped, fear crystallizing into action. "We finish this ourselves. She's half-dead anyway!"
They started forward, picking up rocks and branches. Improvised weapons for impromptu murder.
Really? This is how I go out? Beaten to death by teenage morons with sticks?
"COME AT ME INSTEAD, YOU COWARDS!" Miles stepped in front of me, legs shaking but voice fierce. "You want someone? I'm right here!"
Run, kid. Save yourself.
But he didn't run.
Neither did they.
Then the sky lit up.
Not dawn—wrong direction, wrong color. This was harsh white light from above, accompanied by the earth-shaking thunder of rotor blades.
Helicopters.
Multiple. Military-grade from the sound of it.
I couldn't lift my head anymore. Could barely keep my eyes open. But I heard them land—felt the downdraft scatter dirt across my face.
Boots hitting ground. Lots of them.
"FREEZE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"
Professional voices. Professional weapons. The kind of "professional" that came with seven-figure budgets and authorization to use lethal force.
Tyler and his murder squad were screaming, begging, probably pissing themselves.
But I didn't care about them anymore.
Because through the forest of tactical boots and rifle barrels, one figure moved differently. Faster. More desperate.
Nash.
He dropped to his knees beside me, and I caught a glimpse of his face—usually so controlled, so coldly perfect—twisted with something that looked almost like fear.
For me? That's... new.
I wanted to say something witty. Something to reassure him I'd survived worse. That this was just another Tuesday in the life of Phantom.
But all I managed was a smile.
Then the darkness swallowed me whole, and I let it.