Staring at her, he slowly got up, flipping the knife over with a flick of his wrist. The way he gripped it with his fist, blade sticking outward from the bottom of it, told her he knew what he was doing.
And that the next few minutes would be a fight for her life.
Holding his stare, she slid the switchblade from her calf with her left hand and freed the blade with a snick that was overly loud in the quiet room, the only other sound their heavy breathing. She raised the weapon in a defensive posture, leaving her right hand free to grab the syringe from her thigh pocket when the opportunity came.
She couldn’t risk pulling it out now. Couldn’t let him see it until the very last moment.
Tarasov’s gaze flicked to the weapon in her hand, and his lips twisted in a sneer. “Come on,” he taunted, a gleam in his eyes, as if the idea of her fighting back excited him.
She’d met so many men like him. A predatory animal who enjoyed preying on anyone weaker than him.
She circled him warily in the enclosed space, mindful of the walls around her, how limited her range was. There was nowhere to go. And from the look on his face, only one of them was leaving this room alive.
He lunged at her. She pivoted, ducking at the last moment to avoid the edge of the blade as his hand swung out, and struck back.
A loud hiss filled the room as he whirled to face her, a red ribbon appearing across the outside of his shoulder. His expression turned cold. Deadly. And in spite of herself, fear curdled in the pit of her stomach.
He came at her again, and didn’t stop with one step. He slashed inward with the knife, took another step toward her and swung his leg out to sweep her feet from under her. She jumped just in time to avoid being toppled over, twisting in mid air to keep from having her guts spilled on the floor by the lethal point of his KA-BAR.
Her back hit the wall. Her heart thudded.
His arm whipped out in a diagonal slice, aiming for her torso. She whirled left, sucked in a breath when a hot pain kissed across the side of her ribs. Beneath the burn she felt the warm wetness seeping over her skin.
Trapped.
In desperation she leaned back against the wall and jumped up, using the leverage to drive both feet at him as hard as she could.
She caught him in the chest and sent him reeling back with a grunt, allowing her some breathing room and space to get away from the wall. Tarasov crouched slightly and circled her again, feinting with his blade.
A jab to the right. Then toward her neck.
She ducked and wove, moving fast, weight balanced on the balls of her feet and her knife at the ready. She had to get in close to stab him with the needle.
He lunged forward. She danced back, pivoting to give herself room as she swung her knife at him. He ducked back, then twisted and drove the point of his blade toward her. She reared her head to the side, narrowly avoiding the deadly end as it sunk into the wall with a blood-curdling thunk.
Before he could yank it out, she landed a sharp punch to his kidney and stabbed the knife into his side. He howled like a wounded animal and wrenched away to the side, knocking her loose. She tucked into a somersault, rolled and leapt to her feet, whirling just as he came at her again.
But he was too close. Without the leverage to keep him at arm’s length, without room to move, she was on the defensive. The only thing she could do to protect herself against the next attack was to draw her arms in tight to her body, her locked forearms and clenched hands protecting her face, neck and belly as best they could.
The first blow glanced off her forearm. Fire seared the path of the blade.
She braced her weight, the pain galvanizing her, and drove her right foot straight out, smashing his kneecap. He went down on his other knee, allowing her to spring up.
The wound in her arm burned. Blood dripped down, slicking her palm, making the hilt of her blade slippery.
She faced him, breathing hard. She wanted to kill him. Wanted to slash her knife deep across his throat to sever his jugulars and carotids. She thought of Julia. Of what her friend had suffered in her final hours because of this monster.
But dying was too easy for a piece of shit like Tarasov. She wasn’t letting him off that easy.
Twisting, she lashed out with a sharp sidekick, hitting him in the chest as he turned. He stumbled back into the wall.
Now.
She straightened, reached for the syringe in her pocket. He sprang, diving at her, blade outstretched, aiming right for her belly.
She pivoted at the last second, whirling away. But not fast enough.
His blade caught the inside of her upper left arm as she wrenched to the side. It caught her flesh and sliced deep. Her left hand instantly went numb, the knife falling from her nerveless fingers. A spray of blood arced across the wall next to her.
Cold swept through her belly. She was wounded bad, her left arm now useless and hanging at her side.
Tarasov climbed to his feet, an evil smirk on his face. “Gonna carve you up, bitch,” he snarled, triumph glowing in his eyes as he stalked toward her, blade up and ready to strike.
If she didn’t take him down here and now, she was going to die a horrible death. Marcus’s face appeared in her mind.
She couldn’t die here like this. She had too much to live for. Couldn’t let Marcus suffer any more pain.
Bracing herself, fighting to ignore the blood pumping from her wound, she waited, every heartbeat an agonizing eternity. When Tarasov lunged toward her, she pulled the syringe from her pocket with her right hand and flew at him.
The needle plunged deep into the side of his neck as his blade whipped past her face, missing her by inches.
He jolted in shock, his eyes widening as they locked with hers, their faces close together. She jerked the needle out just as he drew his blade back for another strike, but suddenly the hidden door burst open.
A body hurtled through it, slamming into Tarasov in a flying tackle. Kiyomi fell back as they hit the floor with a thud. She scrambled up, grabbing her wounded arm, pressing hard to control the bleeding. And then she saw who it was.
“Marcus,” she rasped out, a strange mix of fear and relief hitting her. Then Ty and Megan swept in.
Marcus didn’t answer, too busy pounding his fist into Tarasov’s face. Twice, three times until the other man toppled over, his whole body going slack.
Panting, Marcus looked over at her. And when he saw the blood pouring from under her clamped fingers, he cursed, fear tightening his features. She took a stumbling step toward him as he struggled to his knees, then one foot.
Ty was reaching for her, but Marcus cut him off to snag her right wrist and tug her toward him, clamping his hand around the wound in her left upper arm. “Tourniquet,” he snapped to the others. Tarasov was out cold on the floor, his wounded shoulder bleeding onto the floor.
“Here,” Ty said, quickly undoing his belt and handing it over.
How much blood had she lost? Her knees were unsteady, her breathing choppy as Marcus quickly wrapped the belt around her arm above the wound and tightened it mercilessly. She cried out, automatically trying to pull away, but Ty was there, holding her fast.
“Get her out of here,” Marcus ordered, struggling to stand, jaw tight and his eyes full of torment as he stared at her.
His hip. He couldn’t get up.
Her throat tightened, the pain and fear finally hitting her. “Marcus—”
“Go,” he snapped, pushing her at Ty. “They’ll be here any minute.”